


Birthday Boy

by tigerlady (shetiger)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Casual Sex, Cunnilingus, Double Penetration, F/M, Fellatio, First Times, Fuckbuddies, Hand Jobs, M/M, Multi, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual exploration, Threesome, Vaginal Sex, mild exploration of kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 16:56:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 37,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shetiger/pseuds/tigerlady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Boyd has a proposition for Stiles, and then it all just spirals from there.</p><p>—or—</p><p>The one where everybody in Stiles' circle wakes up and realizes he's hot as fuck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Proposition

**Author's Note:**

> Please see notes at the end for further information on the content, if you're so inclined.
> 
> This is basically a long, casual sex yay! PWP. Varying levels of emotional intimacy throughout. It leans towards Sterek at the end, but you can of course read the outcome in whatever way you prefer. Theoretically, you can choose to read just the pairings/threesomes that appeal to you, but the story is all one (thin) plot, and Stiles does think about his other experiences while he's with other characters.
> 
> Thank you to [**alyse**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/alyse) for betaing!

"Erica's birthday is next Thursday," Boyd says, all werewolf grace and intensity in a black leather jacket as he slips into the study carrel next to Stiles.

"Okaaay?" Stiles lets the chewed cap of his yellow highlighter drop into his hand. "I'd get on that, if I were you. You know there's a Harley dealership up in Cliffside, right? I hear they have a whole line of leatherwear."

Boyd rolls his eyes. "You are nowhere near as funny as you think you are, Stilinski."

Stiles caps his highlighter with an aggressive click. "Was there a point to your little announcement, or did you decide to pick up a new part time job? Because I'm not really on board the bug-Stiles-for-fun-or-pay train."

"There's a point." Boyd tips his head back, like Stiles has seen Scott do so many times when he's trying to scent someone out, then cocks his head to the side like he's trying to get his ears to do the swivel-flick-twitch radar thing that four-legged canines do. Finally satisfied, he leans forward into what is so totally Stiles' personal zone, the space clearly demarcated by the flakeboard partition.

Werewolves _suck_.

"Erica's had a crush on you since the fourth grade," Boyd says, and Stiles is holding up his hands before Boyd gets the whole sentence out.

"Okay, whoa, no. That is not on me, dude. I haven't had a single prurient thought about—" And crap, one of these days he's going to learn not to let his mouth get away from him in front of living, breathing lie detectors _equipped with fangs_ , but alas, today is not that day. "I mean, Erica is totally hot, which you know, being her boyfriend and all, but I have no designs on her, I swear."

Boyd snorts. "Relax. I'm not planning on pounding your face in."

"It's amazing how reassuring you don't sound when you say that."

"Do you want to know what I'm here for, or do you want to sass me all day?"

That's begging for a pointed comment about how he didn't start this conversation to begin with, but Stiles knows that if he lets it out they'll just keep going round and round in circles until he has no hope of remembering the vague essay outline he'd been composing in his head before Boyd so rudely interrupted. Stiles goes with the more productive option and mimes zipping his lips.

"Me and Erica are tight." Boyd doesn't actually hold up two fingers twisted together, but it's clear they're implied. "I'm not worried about you trying to steal her away from me. Besides, she's been over you since she took the bite."

"Wow," Stiles says, unable to stop himself. "You might want to slow down before my ego gets too big. I mean, we're talking Goodyear blimp territory, here."

"I'm thinking she might like seeing you with a ball gag," Boyd says, and yeah, all hopes of keeping that outline in his head are toast, because _what the actual fuck?_

"Um, what?"

"I know exactly what I want to get her for her birthday," Boyd says. "And that's you, me, her, all enjoying some personal time together, if you get my drift."

"A threesome?" Stiles blurts. "You want me to be part of a threesome with you guys?"

"Not so loud," Boyd hisses. "You know how hard it was to find a time to talk to you where the rest of the pack couldn't hear?"

"Okay, but." Stiles takes a deep breath, then lowers his voice to his best attempt at a whisper. "But didn't you just get done saying she's over me?"

"Just because she doesn't want to date you doesn't mean she doesn't want to fuck you." Boyd sits back after dropping that bomb, crossing his massive arms over his massive chest. "You never really stop having a thing for your first crush. I thought maybe you could empathize with that."

"Yeah," Stiles rasps. He's been over Lydia for a while now. If he's being honest with himself, he was probably over her before that whole clusterfuck of a night when Lydia's love turned Jackson into a real werewolf, even if his head hadn't realized it until then. Being over her doesn't stop his heart from giving a stupid little judder whenever she aims a smile his way, though. "Yeah, I get that."

"Good." Boyd's smile is almost friendly. "So, are you in?"

"Uh." It suddenly occurs to him that this is a thing that is real. That Boyd doesn't actually seem to be fucking with him. Well. Maybe _actually_ fucking with him, and _that_ is a thing that doesn't make sense. "I didn't know you were into guys?"

"I'm not. Not one bit."

Stiles can't help being offended by the quick, flat denial. "I think it's a little hypocritical to invite me into a threesome and then pull the 'no homo' card, dude."

"And I think you could try keeping your assumptions to yourself for a change," Boyd says, more than a little pissily. "I'm straight. Deal with it. Doesn't mean I won't suck your cock if that's what Erica wants. I just won't get off on it."

"Holy hell," Stiles squeaks. He really, really needs to adjust himself right now. Boyd smirks—and right, there's no hiding how turned on he is from stupid werewolf noses. Just for that, Stiles does reach down. His hand is hidden by the desk from anyone who might be casually strolling through the library, but what he's doing has to be more than obvious to Boyd.

"Made up your mind yet?" Boyd asks, still smirking.

"Um." The proposition is more than a little intimidating, to be sure. Frankly, Erica and Boyd have only made it onto his fantasy list a time or two, in that quick _wow those two are really hot together, I wonder if_ kind of way. But it's not like he has anyone else inviting him into their bed, and, God, Stiles really wants to get laid. "You're sure you're not going to kill me if I say yes?"

Boyd slaps him on the shoulder; Stiles takes it as a good sign when the blow doesn't knock him off his chair. "Just make Erica happy, and we're good from here on out."

"Yeah, okay," Stiles says, even though part of his brain is insisting this is some magic-induced delusion. "I'll do it."

"Great." Boyd stands up. "I'll pick you up at your place next Thursday, around eight. Cool?"

"Cool," Stiles murmurs.

It's as he's watching Boyd strut away that it occurs to Stiles that Boyd very clearly said _make Erica happy_. Which, hey, no problem—except for the fact that Stiles is still very much a virgin, and he's pretty sure what he's learned from porn and extensive googling will only take him so far. In his sad experience, watching and doing are worlds apart. Stiles thunks his forehead down onto his notebook. 

"I'm dead," he mumbles. The smell of ink and bleached paper under his nose might as well be from his own death certificate. "So very, very dead."


	2. Danny

He's standing in front of his locker the next day, chlorinated water drying tight on his skin, when the anxiety truly kicks in. It's not a panic attack. He hasn't had an actual, honest-to-God, can't-breathe can't-think can't- _live_ panic attack in years, despite all the lovely encounters he's had with various creatures of the night during that time. This, though, this precursor or whatever the hell it's called, is a constant companion, a little mental health monkey on his back, ready to climb right up and dig its claws in deep.

Stiles sits down hard on the bench by his knees, vaguely aware that he's alone, that his classmates had raced off before the bell even rang, desperate to be elsewhere on a Friday afternoon. It's so stupid. He shouldn't be getting worked up over the most awesome opportunity to ever saunter on up and bang on his door, but his thoughts keep circling through shoulds and worst-case scenarios, like his brain is trying to eat itself but can't quite catch up to its own tail.

It probably says something that he pictures his own brain as a dumb dog.

It's just.... Boyd threw out the invitation like it was no big deal, like it's something people do every day. Stiles is pretty sure it's not, that casual threesomes are something limited to porn stars, people who lived through the seventies—and kinky werewolves. He has no idea what to expect, no idea what's expected from _him_ , and that absolutely drives him nuts. Stiles is not a big fan of the unexpected. He's the research everything guy, not the sit-back-and-go-with-the-flow guy.

The reliable sex blogs he reads say over and over again that porn isn't an accurate representation of the kinds of stuff everyday people get up to—but then again, what if porn is what Erica and Boyd are looking for? What if they're expecting tongues dueling in the air and cum shots and dirty talk? Well. Maybe not the dirty talk, given Boyd's reference to a ball gag. A shame, since Stiles thinks he could actually be good at dirty talk. _Come on, baby, do it. Take it all. You know you wanna sit on my fat cock._

Stiles blushes. Okay, maybe not so much with the dirty talk.

"Hey, man. You okay?"

Stiles blinks his way back to reality to find Danny wrinkling his brow down at him. He's naked except for the thin white school towel lazily slung around his hips, water still beading up on his skin like he just stepped out of an Irish Spring commercial. Stiles has to blink again to get himself to focus on Danny's eyes.

"Um. Sorry, what?"

Danny snorts. "Are you okay? Because there for a second you looked like you were going to puke all over the place."

"Yeah, no, I'm fine." Stiles scrubs his hands over his hair, surprised to find it's mostly dry. Apparently he lost more than thirty seconds to his little freak out. "Just, you know, lost in thought."

Danny's lips press together, like he knows that's not true, but he's not sure if he wants to get involved. Stiles doesn't blame him. Hell, if he were Danny, he'd take that answer and run, complete with a cheery smile and a breezy _see ya later_. But Danny's pretty much the best person in all of Beacon Hills, and that's including Scott as well as Stiles' own dad, so of course he bunches the knot of his towel in one hand and sits down next to Stiles.

He nudges his knee into Stiles' thigh. "Looked like pretty heavy thoughts."

"Oh, my God, you have no idea how heavy they're not." Stiles shakes his head, then groans. "Seriously. You would laugh so hard if I told you."

"Don't be stingy, then. I can always use a good laugh these days."

Stiles looks at him. Danny's words were joking, but his eyes are serious and concerned. Stiles shouldn't tell him. Boyd was obviously trying to keep it a secret...but it's Danny. Everyone likes Danny. If there's anybody out there who isn't going to judge Stiles' sexual crisis, it's Danny. Sure, he might roll his eyes and tease him a little; after all, this is the guy who's consistently refused to give Stiles even a hint as to whether he's attractive to gay guys.

Stiles can take some teasing. It's the not knowing that's killing him.

"You can't tell anybody," he warns, and then gets the rest of it out in one breathless rush. "Boyd asked me to have a threesome with him and Erica for her birthday and I said yes, except I've never done anything like that before and I'm freaking out like crazy because I'm going to screw it up. Oh, and also, Boyd's straight but there might be touching or sucking involved, I don't know, how the hell do you have sex with a straight guy?"

Danny does laugh. Softly, though; without malice. "You have the craziest problems of anyone I know."

"Right?" Stiles sucks in a huge breath, like lung-bursting huge, and when he lets it out again most of the anxiety is gone. Danny's warm presence just melted it away. Relief tastes like giddiness inside his throat, making him laugh, too, but he manages to swallow the sound back down before it morphs into giggles. "God, what is wrong with me?"

Danny shrugs. "Everybody's nervous their first time. Or, hell, their first time with anyone new. You'll get past it."

Stiles sighs. "Yeah, well, by the time I'm past it, I'll be out the door, wondering what the heck just happened."

Great. So the anxiety's gone, but now he's hollow. He stares down at his bare feet, tucked in close to Danny's shapely toes, and tries to work up the energy to get up and shower. His dad is expecting him home for dinner before he heads in for the late shift. Considering how quickly Stiles is moving right now, he might just make it out the door by midnight.

"Hang on," Danny says, and then he's slipping away behind the lockers. Stiles barely has time to question what he's up to before he's back, grabbing the all-purpose shower gel out of Stiles' locker and shoving it into Stiles' hand.

"Come on," he says, getting a tight grip around Stiles' upper arm to urge him up off the bench. Stiles goes, more out of curiosity than because he actually has to. Danny's taller than him, and a bit more built, but the last couple years have been good to Stiles' muscle mass. 

He shouldn't be surprised when they end up in the shower room, given the shower gel in his hand, but Danny's already showered—and he's not moving away from Stiles.

"Coach is gone. We've got time before the janitor gets here," Danny says, and Stiles' stomach flips like a dying fish. "You can say no. But if you want, I don't mind a little hands-on practice." The little jacking motion Danny makes clears up any ambiguity in his meaning.

Stiles gapes. "Are you saying I _am_ attractive to gay guys?"

Danny rolls his eyes. "I'm saying it wouldn't be a hardship."

"You sweet talker, you."

"You're far too sarcastic to be my type," Danny says. Stiles wants to protest that, because hello, Danny is on the AP track in sarcasm management himself, but then a slow, dirty smile spreads across Danny's lips. "But yes, you're hot. And I'm horny. Is that good enough for you?"

"Hell, yes," Stiles says, heart skittering with those words, blood rushing to his groin. Danny's hot. Stiles has always thought so, even back when he wasn't really admitting to himself what that meant, when the part of his brain that always knew that Lydia wasn't ever going to swoon at his feet had whispered _maybe_ about Danny.

"Take off your towel," Danny says, putting action to words himself before turning on one of the shower taps. Steam rises up quickly, but it's not enough to obscure the view. Stiles has seen Danny naked before, and vice versa, but he's always been careful to keep his locker room blinkers in place.

"Towel, Stiles," Danny says when he turns around. Stiles drops it by rote, fingers working mechanically as he stares at Danny's thickening cock. He's hardening himself, turned on almost as much by the thought that this is actually happening as he is by who he's with.

"If Boyd's okay with you touching him at all, he'll probably be more than fine with a handjob," Danny says, stepping closer. Their cocks are almost touching. Stiles has the urge to twist his hips, just enough so they brush together like parrying swords. Or, ooh, light sabers. He doesn't think Danny would think it's funny, though, so he holds himself in check. "Hand jobs seem to skip over the gay freak-out nerves in straight boys, as long as they're the ones getting done."

There's a hint of bitterness to Danny's straightforward statement. Stiles wants to ask him about that, wants to ask if _straight boys_ translates to _Jackson_ , but sometimes his common sense does kick in. Later, maybe, after he's managed to get off with someone besides himself.

"Boyd sounded pretty cool with whatever," he says instead, which is pretty much an accurate description of Boyd in regards to most anything. But he's not really interested in dissecting Boyd's motivations right now. Not with Danny naked and hard in front of him. 

Stiles tentatively reaches out. He wants to touch Danny's chest, see if his skin is as silky as it looks; wants to explore the little divot in his sternum, then run his fingertips up to play with a nipple. He's just not sure what the rules are.

"Here," Danny says, tugging the shower gel out of Stiles' other hand. He squirts a dollop into Stiles' palm, then his own, before dropping the bottle to the floor. "Just follow my lead and you'll be fine."

"Right. I mean, it's not like I've never handled a dick before." He says it mostly to reassure himself about this whole thing, but Danny pulls back.

"It's different," Danny says, watching him carefully. "You have to pay attention to what the other guy likes, not just what you know you like."

Stiles nods forcefully. "Got it. Totally going to be focusing on what makes your dick happy. Yes, siree. Happy dicks."

Danny snorts. Stiles' mouth hasn't seemed to have put him off, since he steps forward, bringing their bodies so close their cocks do brush together. It's not funny at all. Stiles takes in a heavy breath, the steam filling his lungs as he stares down at the sight. Danny brings his hand down, stroking the back of his cupped fingers over Stiles' belly, right along the line of hair that leads downwards. The skin there flutters and jumps in response, shooting a shocking pulse of desire down to the soles of his feet and behind his balls. Stiles sucks in a breath so hard he chokes.

Danny chuckles. "Sorry," he says. "I kind of forgot what being new to this means."

Stiles wants to push him on that, ask him exactly what it does mean, but then Danny's wrapping his slicked hand around Stiles' cock and it's the best thing he's ever felt in his life.

"Oh, wow," he gets out. He clutches at Danny's shoulder instinctively, part of his brain impressed with himself for not using the hand full of gel. For a moment it's all he can do to just hang on. Danny's hand is so sure, like he already knows Stiles' penis better than Stiles does—and if there's one thing Stiles knows, it's his penis. But it's so much more with Danny's hand on him, like a whole other set of nerves down there suddenly came on line.

"Touch me, Stiles," Danny says, and wow, he's breathing heavy already, like he's getting into this as much as Stiles is. Which means Stiles should probably do what he said and touch Danny's cock. Stiles wants to. God, does he want to. Except...should he do the skim down the belly maneuver that Danny did, or just go straight for it? Should he use the same grip he always does, or try something more complicated?

Danny lets go of him.

"Sorry," Stiles gasps. "I couldn't decide how to start."

"You just start," Danny says, grabbing hold of Stiles' hand and guiding it to his dick. Most of the gel has dripped through his fingers by now, but he's still slick enough that his palm glides smoothly down Danny's length. "Relax, Stiles. It's not exactly a life-or-death situation."

Maybe that's the problem. One of the things Stiles has found out about himself in the past few years is that he's at his best in high-pressure situations, when there's no time to think and he has to just **do**. He's thinking too much right now, even with Danny's cock hot and heavy and so firm in his hand.

Then Danny palms the head of Stiles' dick and rubs. He keeps rubbing until Stiles is jittering out of his skin, swallowing raggedly around the water-laden air he's dragging into his lungs. It's too much, but at the same time it's so good he doesn't want to tell Danny to stop. Stiles starts jacking Danny fast and hard out of self-defense, and within a couple strokes Danny drops his own hand back down to grip around the base of Stiles' cock.

They fall into a weird feedback loop, or at least that's what it feels like. Stiles thinks about how he'd like it a little faster, and speeds his own hand up just in case Danny wants that too. Danny speeds up in response—and then he tightens his hand around Stiles, mostly at the top of each stroke. Stiles copies him. He thinks, maybe, that this is what Danny meant about paying attention to what the other guy likes, but at the same time it doesn't logically seem like it should work. Except there's the part where it's totally working for him.

"Oh, God," Stiles groans, and boom, he's there, his balls drawing up to shoot him off like a Roman candle. He knows he needs to keep his hand going, but it's so difficult when all he wants to do is collapse and let his orgasm shudder through him. Danny comes to the rescue, wrapping his other hand around Stiles' and working both over his cock. Just when Stiles is coming down, Danny starts grunting. Stiles opens his eyes just in time to see Danny come, white splashes of semen that land on Stiles' belly and drip into his pubic hair before being washed away.

Danny lets go, bringing both hands up, and just like that all the strength goes out of Stiles, his legs shaking and the rest of him none too steady. He sags forward, and Danny catches him, holds him for a moment, rubbing a comforting circle between Stiles' shoulder blades, before he grips Stiles by the upper arms and gently pushes him away.

"You good?" he asks.

Stiles nods jerkily. "Yeah. That was...wow. Thanks, man." And maybe that's weird, maybe thanking somebody for giving you an orgasm isn't the thing to do, but Danny just grins.

"It was fun." He turns into the spray for a quick rinse before stepping clear. "You feel better about Erica and Boyd now?"

Reality cuts through his pleasant post-orgasmic haze. "Oh," he says, because he'd managed to forget all about _why_ he and Danny were having shower-time fun. "Yeah. I think I'm good now."

Danny grins. "Great. I'll see you on Monday then, 'k?"

"'K," Stiles echoes, flapping his fingers goodbye. Danny disappears back into the locker room, and Stiles blows out a breath. "Okay. Pull it together, Stilinski."

He gathers up his shower gel and starts a quick lathering. He's going to forever associate the smell of Old Spice body wash with Danny and come, and oh, God, he's not a virgin anymore. He thinks. Depending on how you define virginity, he supposes. It wasn't at all the way he'd imagined his first time being, but hey, that's okay. The pressure is off now. He can do this.

Right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains semi-public sex.


	3. Lydia

The doorbell rings at ten till midnight. Stiles' stomach drops to his feet, then rebounds so fast he almost vomits all over his fat sock-monkey socks. He takes a couple deep breaths, then forces himself to walk to the front window.

There's no squad car outside. Stiles drops his head to the cool glass of the window, taking several more too fast breaths before the doorbell rings again. He lifts his head, irritation whooshing up his spine like a flash fire—and that's when he notices Lydia's car parked across the street.

She's smiling when he opens the door, wearing a skin tight dress, one of those bandage wrap things that's so good at showing off a woman's curves, and obviously clueless as to the trauma she just put him through.

"Well," she says, setting a hand on her hip, a purse so large Stiles would be tempted to call it an overnight bag dangling from her other elbow. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

Any other night Stiles would have jumped at her bidding, crush or no crush, but he's had a couple of very strange days and she just made him think that something horrible had happened to his father, so Stiles isn't quite that tractable. "Hi, Lydia," he says instead. "Lovely night, isn't it? What happens to bring you to my part of town?"

She huffs. "You're really going to play hard to get?"

Stiles blinks. "Excuse me?"

Lydia flicks her hair over her shoulder. "Just let me in, Stiles. Please? I feel awkward having this conversation underneath your bug light."

Stiles steps aside so she can swan into his living room. He shuts the door, then turns to stare at the empty spot in front of the saggy, afghan-covered couch where he expected her to park the royal presence. He spins stupidly for a moment before he glimpses the back of her bare calves as her high-heeled feet kick her on up the stairs. Stiles hustles after, stumbling over the first step. By the time he gets to his room, she's sitting on his bed, legs crossed at the knees and her bag open beside her.

"I talked to Danny," she says, and Stiles has to fight the urge to cover his crotch, _what the hell?_

"About?" he asks, cursing the way his voice breaks.

Lydia rolls her eyes. "Don't play stupid. You know exactly what I mean."

"It was supposed to be a secret!" he squawks.

"Please. Danny and I tell each other everything these days." She means since Jackson took off to parts unknown, broke her heart all over again, and cemented Stiles' opinion of his utter jerkitude, but none of that is visible in the way she bobs her head like a robin and smiles brightly. "Don't worry. It's still a secret. Just one between the three of us."

"I'm pretty sure that's not how a secret works," he mutters. Lydia, of course, pays him no mind. Stiles feels awkward, hovering in the empty space in his own room while she uses his bed as a throne, so he grabs his desk chair and sits down in it with the back facing front. "So why are you here, Lydia? I'm assuming you've heard everything already, so there's no need to get it from the horse's mouth."

"I'm here because you've obviously overlooked a very important point in your little plan." Her smile is frightening, but Stiles has no idea what motive is lurking behind those shark teeth.

"Plan?" Stiles snorts. "What plan?"

"Yes, exactly." She uncrosses her legs and crosses them again the opposite way. Despite his best intentions, his gaze drops to the gloriously bare stretch of her thighs, to the little crease between them that turns to shadow under the hem of her dress. "Now, I understand that you took the opportunity that you were given. But tell me, exactly, how is getting off with another guy going to help you learn how to make Erica's birthday the best she's ever had?"

"Because now I know I won't come the instant somebody else touches my dick?" 

Maybe he'd been hoping to shock her a little when he said it, maybe regain a little of the ground she'd charged across in her petal pink pumps, but she just rolls her eyes like he's being obtuse. 

As usual.

"It's so good to know you aim high," she says. "Now. How about we start correcting all that misinformation I'm sure you have about how a woman's body works. Lesson one—porn is as real as professional wrestling."

"Hey," Stiles protests. "I read blogs. Good ones."

"I'm sure." Lydia reaches into her bag and pulls out a box of condoms. She tosses it onto his bed, near the pillows. "Your father has the night shift, yes? So we should have plenty of time."

"Excuse me?" Stiles' thoughts zip and zing through his head, leaving him flailing. Literally. He pulls his arms back into himself, tucking his hands under his elbows. "I'm pretty sure you just implied we're going to have sex. As in together. As in a thing I'm fairly sure you said would never happen."

"I changed my mind," Lydia stands up, settling the oversized hoop of a purse strap over her shoulder. "Have you?"

"Um. I don't. What is this, Lydia?" The him from two years ago wants to punch himself in the face right now, but it's a truth he has to tell. "Because I adore you, I really do, but I don't actually want to date you. Not anymore."

"Did I say the word 'date' at any time?"

"No." Stiles swallows. His dick's starting to perk up and take interest in their conversation. "So what, you're going to have— No, pity sex doesn't even make sense. Unless you're pitying Erica? Wow, that makes me feel so good about myself."

Lydia rolls her eyes. "Would you rather moan about your feelings, or would you rather have sex?"

"Um." Stiles has a moment where there are no thoughts in his head. It's such a foreign sensation that it doesn't last long, his brain filling up a second later with all the thoughts ever. He's dreamed of this for so long that it doesn't feel real at all. Any second now he's going to wake up with a mess in his shorts and a hole in his heart.

Lydia crosses her arms over her chest. "Fine. It's possible that I don't find you completely unattractive. I've never considered actually doing anything about it, though, because I'm not in love with you, and I didn't think you'd ever be someone who could handle a one-night stand."

"I can handle it," Stiles says, somewhat faintly. He clears his throat. "I did with Danny, didn't I?"

She arches an eyebrow. "Somehow the fact that you didn't follow him home like a starving puppy after he jerked you off this afternoon doesn't strike me as incontrovertible proof."

"Well, excuse me for following the laws of mathematics by not being able to prove a negative." 

Lydia doesn't look impressed. "I haven't heard a no from you yet."

"Um. That's because I haven't said it." He swallows. "So, uh. Yes."

"All right then. I'll be in the bathroom for a few. Don't get impatient." She slips out his door with a catty little wave, smiling the whole time.

He waits for a breath, then drops his head to his hands. 

"Oh, my God," he breathes against his clammy skin. This is happening. Okay, maybe it's not the walk-down-the-aisle and picket-fence dream he gave up on a couple years ago, but it's a fantasy far more well worn, one he's used to stroke himself off into pleasant zzzs more nights than he can remember. Lydia is here. In his bedroom. After announcing she's planning to have sex with him.

Stiles lifts his head. Lydia is here, planning to have sex with him—on the same sheets he jerked off on this morning.

He bolts out of his chair, almost tumbling to the floor when his foot gets stuck between the armrest and the seat, then dashes over to his bed. He's got one corner untucked when it occurs to him he better make sure he actually has a clean change of bedding, so he dashes out to the hall linen closet instead. Lydia's still in the bathroom, doing who the fuck knows what. Stiles just hopes it takes another five minutes.

He's stuffed the sheets and the ugly-ass socks he'd been wearing into his hamper and has just resettled his coverlet on top of the bed when Lydia clears her throat genteelly. Stiles turns—and stops breathing.

He doesn't even know how to describe what she's wearing. A babydoll nightgown, maybe. It's like her bra sprouted a thigh-length, very sheer dress, everything in a pink just a shade darker than her own pale skin. Black lace edges the top of the bra—which is doing an expert job at pushing her breasts up and together, _bless you, Vicky, for your fabulous secrets_ —and the top of the little triangle of cloth covering her groin.

"God, Lydia," he says, somehow managing to not choke on his own tongue. "You're gorgeous."

Her smile is more gentle than smug. Like even with as much self-confidence as she has, she still enjoys hearing the words. "Since you like it so much," she says, crooking a finger at him, "why don't you come here and kiss me?"

"Okay," Stiles says, but his feet are stuck. Somehow, kissing Lydia is a bigger deal than the idea of having sex with her, and he's suddenly, powerfully terrified that he'll do it wrong.

Lydia tips her head to the side, forehead veeing as her lips draw up in a tight little O of contemplation. "You look like that time Finstock said he was going to make you play goal at regionals. Am I that scary?"

Stiles shakes his head vehemently. He takes two coltish steps forward, then brings his noodly arms up so he can cup her shoulders loosely. His hands are too large compared to her delicate bones, like dolphin flippers trying to cradle seashells. "How do you, uh, how should I, you know, go about this?"

"It's one of those things you just figure out with practice," Lydia says, reaching up to cover his hands with her own. She guides them in until the tips of his fingers brush the back of her neck and his thumbs rest against her collar bones. "Don't try to make it look sexy. Just do what feels good."

"Right." He can do this. He bends his neck like a robot with rusted gears, lowering his mouth towards her smiling lips until he can feel the air rebound and mingle between them, heating his chin and cheeks; until he can hear how the rasp of her inbreath is as jagged as his own.

Stiles closes his eyes.

Her lips are slick with gloss. That's the first thing he notices, and then her mouth moves, coaxing his own a little wider. He thinks about going for tongue, but that's probably the kind of thing he should let Lydia set the pace on. They just stand there, gliding and pressing lips together, until Lydia pulls back.

She laughs when she looks up at his face.

"It's okay," she says, reaching up to scrub his mouth with her thumb. "You have no idea how disappointed I was, like, the first half dozen times I kissed a guy. The bells and whistles don't always kick in until you really go for it."

"Really go for it," he repeats, because he's not sure how that's supposed to translate into action. "As in sex?" Because if that's the case, used car salesmen have nothing on all the romantic movies and fairy tales out there, ones where electricity sparks in the air and pulses pound at that very first touch of lips.

"As in making out," Lydia says. She grabs his hand and leads him over to his bed, guiding him down until they're lying side by side. "Kiss me. Don't think about it."

He's not sure where to put his free arm, until Lydia curls her hand around his neck and everything slots into place. She doesn't wait for him to make the first move, pulling his face down to hers and opening her mouth to him. It's easier to go with the flow this time, to chase after the brush of her tongue and the spark of lust she's pulling from his body. He's not sure how it goes from that first kiss to something wild, to their teeth clicking together and Lydia's fingers twisting in his T-shirt, his hand creeping down to clutch at the swell of her ass and hauling her in tight until there's delicious pressure against his cock.

"Better?" Lydia gasps out as Stiles moves down to nose at her neck. She smells like the same perfume she always does, something expensive he's never been able to pin down, no matter how many times he's accidentally sprayed himself in the face at the department store counters trying to figure it out. "Stiles."

"Hmm?" His fingers have tripped over the spaghetti strap of her negligee, and he's torn between seeing how far it'll roll down her shoulder and going back up to lip at her earlobe. 

"The kissing. Was it better that time?" she asks, and then she presses her fingers into the jut of his jaw, turning his mouth back to hers. Stiles whimpers into her mouth, overtaken by a _want_ that's not centered in his cock but in the whole of his body. It's a need to get deeper, a need that seems echoed in her as she strains against him, tongue pushing hard into his mouth. 

The swell of lust finally crests, leaving them panting against each other, heads lolling against Stiles' lumpy pillows. A single-strand-thick curtain of Lydia's hair spiderwebs their faces together until she brings her hand up and carelessly brushes it away.

"Yeah," he finally says, voice cracking like old paint as some part of his brain processes her question. God only knows where it got the necessary blood supply from. "Yeah, that was...yeah."

"You're always so well spoken," Lydia says as she sits up. All thoughts of sticking out his tongue are chased from his mind when she tugs one cup of the nightie aside and lifts her breast out of it, then repeats the maneuver on the other side, leaving her bared and on display to his gaze.

"Well?" Lydia prompts, because something important has shorted out upstairs, leaving Stiles frozen as he stares at her.

"Holy crap," he finally croaks. Fuck being well-spoken. Stiles is sure that gets his feelings across succinctly enough.

"You should take your shirt off," she says. "Actually, just take everything off. It'll save us time later."

Stiles swallows down his questions as he gets back up off the bed, swallows down his uncertainty and embarrassment, even though some part of him is still sure that this is a joke, or maybe a nightmare, one where he pushes his boxers down to reveal tentacles in place of his junk. Pulling his shirt up over his head is easy enough, though he has to take a couple quick breaths, like a diver hyper-oxygenating his blood, before he strips off his shorts and boxers, letting his cock bob free.

Lydia licks her lips. "Oh, I'd say you'll do just fine," she says, her gaze slow to return to his face. Stiles supposes that's a good thing, but his cheeks heat anyway. "Why don't I return the favor?"

He doesn't get what she means until Lydia kneels up and wriggles her panties down and off. She's still got the nightie on, so he sees her in Instagram-hazed snapshots: her bright red pubic hair trimmed in a neat Brazilian strip that makes him self-conscious about his own wild bush, a quick flash of deeper purple-red between her legs as she kicks the underwear away.

She pats the stretch of bare sheet beside her, and he lurches back onto the bed. In his fantasies, he's always oscillated between James-Bond smooth and so klutzy he managed to give himself a black eye. (Verisimilitude is sexy, okay? Especially when it leads to fantasy-Lydia kissing everything better.) Reality is closer to the middle ground, the way he tumbles back into her arms having nothing resembling grace, yet everything works out anyway, her little sigh against his mouth, her breasts against his chest, the crazy-making feel of slick fabric between his hand and her bare ass.

"Remember," Lydia says as she drags his hand up to her breast. "Every woman is different."

"Yeah, I got the 'always pay attention' lecture from Danny earlier," Stiles says as he tests the pads of his fingers against her jutting nipples. She arches her chest into him, so he thinks that gets a check in the box. "Believe me, I am so paying attention right now."

"Good. But it's always better to ask than to guess."

Stiles almost asks exactly _how_ Lydia knows about the varying sexual needs of women, but if he wants to have any chance at all at staying present, he needs to not let himself go down that (very sexy) road. 

"Do you like this?" he asks as he flicks the tip of his blunt thumbnail over her nipple. A risky move, maybe, but the way she sucks in a breath tells him it's just as good for her as it is when he does it to himself.

"Mmm," she breathes. "Do that some more, then use your mouth."

Stiles starts wriggling down the bed immediately. He wants to skip ahead, get his mouth on her right away, but this is about more than just what he wants. He flicks her left nipple until it's even rosier than it was to begin with, then leans in and strokes his tongue across it.

Lydia whimpers and clutches at his hair.

"Oh, you have not _even_ ," Stiles says, because _hello_. Everyone in the damn school knows about his oral fixation. It'd be nice to say he works his mouth for the way she writhes against him, the soft stuttering cries she makes and harsh pants of her breath—and he loves that she's into what he's doing, he really does. But mostly it's about the firmness of her nipples against his tongue, between his teeth. The way he can't quite decide if he can actually feel the little bumps demarcating her areolas, so he has to go back again and again, testing with the tip, then the flat, of his tongue.

"Okay, okay," Lydia gasps out, urging him upwards until they're face-to-face again. "I am definitely teaching you how to eat me out later," she says matter-of-factly, and Stiles has to grab for his cock.

"Oh, no, no, no," she says, dragging his hand away. "You are not going to come until you're inside me."

Stiles turns his face into his pillow so he can let out a loud mewel of frustration. "God, Lydia," he says, rolling his head towards her again. "You're killing me."

Lydia scrapes her nails across his belly. The skin skitters more than it had at Danny's shocking first touch. She leaves her hand against his abdomen, thumb drawing lazy arcs beside his cock while she stares into his eyes.

"I am going to wrap my hand around your dick and jack you a couple of times," she says. "And that's _all_ I'm going to do for now. You are not going to come. Understand me?"

Stiles nods jerkily. Lydia smiles. "Good," she breathes. "Now close your eyes."

He does. 

Nothing happens. 

He can hear her take a deep breath and let it out again slowly, can hear the way her breathing picks up speed despite her careful control. He can hear his own loud, squelchy swallows and the smack as he opens his mouth to find more air and a weird click that comes from somewhere high up in his throat.

Lydia grabs his cock. 

Stiles curls forward, wordless noises escaping him as she ever-so-lightly strokes him from root to tip. This feels nothing like Danny's strong, confident grip driving him to completion as quickly as possible. Lydia is clearly teasing him, the tips of her fingers skipping over his length like Stiles himself sometimes does when he has the time and patience to work himself up to an earth-shattering orgasm. Her strokes aren't nearly enough to get him off, but they're perfect for making him want to tighten his hand around hers and fuck her fist hard and fast until he comes.

Lydia lets go. "There. That should tide you over until you get me off a couple times."

"Fucking hell, Lydia." He flops over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling while he catches his breath. His lips curl despite himself, despite the freakin' torture she's putting him through. "You have a plan for every single thing, don't you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. That's mathematically impossible." Lydia smacks his chest. "Now come on. I intended to be to the intercourse by now."

Stiles snickers. Lydia smirks down at him, and God, part of him wishes that this could be that happily-ever-after moment he'd always hoped for. The rest of him is just really glad that they've gotten to this point, that they're the kind of friends who can do this together, who can give and take from each other without entering the tally of exchanges into a leger.

"What do you want?" Stiles asks, cupping her shoulder. "My mouth? My hand?"

"I want you to kiss me," Lydia says. "Like before."

Kissing her is no hardship. She's half on top of him now, breasts pressing into his chest, and, despite her vow not to touch him again, her thigh is draped over his groin, rubbing up against his dick. Her thighs part further and she starts to grind against him, slicking his hip and making him crazy with the need to do something more, to feel her wet heat around his fingers, his tongue, his cock.

"Lydia, please," Stiles begs when she lifts away to take a breath. "I wanna make you come."

She licks her lips. "My original plan was to start with manual stimulation," she says. "But I'm really tempted to skip ahead a few chapters in the syllabus."

"Just tell me what to do, and I'll do it."

Lydia gives him a long, measuring look, then she sits up, getting her knees under her before she straddles him. For one, all-too-brief moment, her vulva is so close to the head of his cock he can feel the heat coming off of her, but then she moves, knee-walking up his chest until she reaches his armpits.

She rises up high and grabs hold of one of the shelves behind them, bracing herself so she can set a knee on each side of his head, tucking her small feet under his shoulders.

"Oh, my fucking God," Stiles gets out before saliva floods his mouth. He can see everything, every fold and bump and shadowy crease, but what's effecting him more is the way she smells, indescribable but so tempting he has to remind himself to wait for Lydia's cue.

"Here," she says, reaching down to spread herself open for him. "Tap out if you can't breath."

She lowers herself down until all Stiles has to do is open his mouth and stick out his tongue. She tastes every bit as good as she smells. He's not sure what he's supposed to be doing—besides getting her off, obviously—whether he's supposed to lick at her clit or fuck as deep as he can into her vagina. He tries a little of both, getting his whole face wet, tongueing everywhere he can, going with the flow as she circles her hips.

"Good," Lydia croons breathily. "That's so good, Stiles. Concentrate on my clit now." She shifts a bit as she says it, dragging herself over his mouth so that all he has to do is just keep licking, keep flicking at the hard little bead of flesh.

"Yes, oh, God," she pants. She's rocking against his face, the weight of her hips shoving his head down into his pillow even as he strains up to get at her as much as he can. Real sex is even less elegant than what he's seen in vids; his gulping, swallowing gasps that he sucks in as fast as he can make him sound like a runner with a nasty cold, and the cries that Lydia makes are chokingly desperate, closer to piggy grunts than the feminine wails he'd always imagined.

" _Yessss,_ " Lydia hisses, her hips jerking and shuddering against his jaw. Stiles keeps going, doing what was working, knowing that stopping in the middle of her orgasm is the last thing he wants to do. Finally she pulls up off of him as she uses the flats of her fingers against his forehead to shove him down and away. "That's good," she pants. "I can't take anymore."

"Sorry," Stiles gasps back, because, while he might not be that experienced, he knows exactly what it's like to take it too far over the edge. Though...that can be fun to play with sometimes. He licks sweet musk off his lips, staring at Lydia's snatch as he thinks about everything he's ever heard about multiple orgasms. "But if you want to go again...."

"Oh, I will most definitely be taking advantage of your mouth again," Lydia says, even as she swings her knee over his shoulder and scoots down the bed. "Later, though. I want you inside me, right now."

Stiles grabs for his cock, her edict be damned. "God, yes," he says. "Fuck, Lydia, you have no idea."

"I think I might have a bit of a clue," she says, smiling sweetly enough that it doesn't sting, that little reminder of how crazily Stiles has thrown himself at her through the years feeling more like a shared joke between them. She pats his thighs. "Scoot up. You probably want your back to something."

That...sounds promising, so Stiles does exactly what she says, stuffing a couple pillows behind his back so that the edges of the shelves behind him don't dig quite so sharply into his bones.

"Here," Lydia says, handing him the crisp foil square. "Show me you know how to do it right."

"Yes, ma'am," Stiles sasses back, but he'd be stupid not to do what she said. His fingers are clumsy at first, taking him two tries to get the package open, but he's not as awkward and nervous as he could be in this situation. He's never going to admit to her that he's actually practiced this before, long, slow sessions in front of his computer while he figured out the best, smoothest way to go about suiting up. He squeezes the air out of the tip, then sucks in a breath as he rolls the condom down over his cock.

"Good job," Lydia says—and then she's moving in close, straddling him again, breasts right in front of his face as she rises up, reaching down to hold his cock in place—

"Oh, my God," Stiles says, the words breathy, barely there things as she eases down, taking his cock inside of her, inch by excruciatingly good inch. "Oh, God, _Lydia_."

"Shhh," she hushes, letting the sound die against his mouth before she nips at his bottom lip. Stiles can only swallow and breathe and let her do whatever she wants, overwhelmed by the way she's slowly moving up and down, fucking him in first gear, no speed but with gathering power. His hands find their way to her ass. Muscles clench and squeeze under his palms, and it's nothing to gather her to him, helping her lift up and then pulling her back down again so he's buried deep.

"Mmm," Lydia moans softly. "You feel so good, Stiles, filling me up. Does it feel good to you?"

"So good," he says. She's moving faster now, really rocking against him. "Better than I—" He bites the sentence off, because it's too much, even though she knows, to admit out loud how he used to think about her.

"Better than you imagined?" Of course Lydia didn't miss his slip. She's panting constantly now, eyes heavy-lidded as she stares down at him, her skin strawberry-blushed. "Did you ever think about us like this?"

Stiles nods. He's imagined her every way possible—and some impossible ways, he's sure.

"Come on," Lydia says, speeding up, her breasts bouncing with every rise and fall. "Fuck me, Stiles. Fuck me the way you always thought about."

It's almost impossible to figure out how to thrust in this position, but Stiles gets his feet on the bed, leans his weight back into the shelf behind him, and shoves up, as hard as he can. Lydia lets out a low groan that shudders up from her chest, like he's done something so good she can't control the sounds she's making. Stiles manages a few more deep thrusts, but that's it, that's all she wrote, he's coming, fingers clenching on her hips as he holds her to him, calling out wordlessly, mindlessly. His cock jerks and pulses for a long time, until finally he's over the other side, his whole body going limp as he lets out a deep sigh.

Lydia's still tense above him.

"Sorry," he croaks.

She laughs softly. "It's okay. I didn't expect a marathon your first time off the blocks." She kisses him, a little bit more passionately than he's quite ready for at the moment, and then eases up and off of his softening dick.

Stiles reaches for the box of tissues, taking care of the condom and cleaning himself up, somewhat distractedly since Lydia's busy slipping her nightie the rest of the way off. He's not sure which is the sexier look: the coquettish tease of her lingerie, or the natural beauty of her own naked body. He's just glad he's gotten to see both.

"How soon can you get hard again?" Lydia asks as she eases back onto the bed.

Stiles swallows. "Um."

Lydia's found her sharkish grin. "Because first, you are going to make me come again. Then we're going to have a little lesson on how to make sure the missionary position is never boring."

"I've always known you're a genius," Stiles says, and pulls her in for a heated kiss.

* * *

"I think you broke my dick," Stiles says, what has to be hours later, gasping with his head hanging over the foot of the bed. "My dick, it is broken. I'm never going to masturbate again."

Lydia just laughs.

* * *

So maybe Stiles jerks off three times Saturday. Because Lydia. And Danny. And also a little thing called an upcoming threesome with Erica and Boyd.

But that's it. His dick is in retirement until Thursday. There is more to life than getting off, after all, and Stiles likes to think he has some self-respect. Self-control.

Something like that.


	4. Isaac

Isaac texts him Sunday afternoon. _Hey,_ it says. _Can you come to my house? Need to talk._

Stiles blinks, because Isaac hardly ever contacts him directly even though they get along just fine these days. Derek or Scott should be first on Isaac's need-to-talk list. 

_What's up?_ he sends back. _Someone in trouble?_

_Nah. Everything's good. Just kind of awkward to text about._

Stiles sighs. Sometimes he's sure that the rest of the pack uses his insatiable curiosity to bait him into situations he'd surely say no to if they just straight up told him what they wanted. Every freakin' time it happens, Stiles tells himself he's going to be strong the next time and not fall into the same old trap.

His hands aren't in on the plan, obviously, because they're stuffing his phone into his pocket and reaching for his keys.

Isaac opens his door before Stiles even gets close enough to knock. It's weird, stepping into the Lahey family home. Stiles hasn't been here since—well, actually, he's pretty sure he's never been inside. Scott's whispered stories were enough to paint a picture he can't forget, so walking into the clean, bright kitchen feels surreal, like he's gotten a glimpse of the horrifyingly manicured lawns and robotically perfect children from _A Wrinkle in Time_.

Isaac offers him a Coke and a smile just as sweet. Stiles taps the nail of his index finger against the aluminum of the can, trying not to look at the door that must lead down to the basement.

"What's up?" he finally asks.

Isaac rolls one shoulder forward. "Boyd talked to me about it."

Stiles blinks. "Talked to you about what?" he asks, even though there's only one possible answer.

"You know. You with him and Erica. He wanted to know if I thought he was crazy, asking you to do it. If I thought you'd say yes."

"Dude! I thought this was all supposed to be a big secret." Stiles pulls out one of the high-backed wooden chairs surrounding the dining table, the rubbered feet juddering loudly across the floor, and drops down onto the seat, pretending he didn't notice the way Isaac flinched at the noise. "So you told him to just go for it?"

"Pretty much. I figured you wouldn't hesitate to tell him 'hell no' if you didn't want to do it."

"Right." Stiles rubs a finger over his lips. "So, what? You wanted me to come over here so you could...apologize? Take credit?"

"Not exactly." Isaac actually blushes, then rubs at the back of his head, sending his curls into a wild, cherubic mess. 

Stiles still doesn't get Isaac sometimes, the way he can bounce from wildly confident, sarcastic and occasionally cruel, to this adorable, almost childlike shyness. He figures it's something about the wolf, maybe, combined with everything Isaac went through before he was turned. Stiles has learned to take him as he is, for the most part. Mostly because Scott adores Isaac and thus they've all spent enough time together to ignore each other's sharp corners—but also because Stiles knows what it's like to have a personality that society would prefer to sand down into something smoother.

"Okay." Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets, trying to act like this isn't completely awkward. "Then what, _exactly_ , am I doing here?"

Isaac shrugs. "I thought since you said yes to them, that probably meant you were okay with the idea of casual sex."

Stiles nods slowly, a bit warily. "I mean, ideally, I'd like to find that perfect person—or hell, persons—for me and have the whole shebang someday, you know? But I'm not ready for happily-ever-after right now, so I figure why not? Casual sex is a hell of a lot more fun than not having sex."

Isaac grins. God, he's got a lot of beautiful teeth. "So do you wanna have some fun with me?"

Stiles blinks, wondering if he parsed that wrong somehow. "You mean, uh—"

"Sex," Isaac says oh-so-casually. His grin slides into something smaller, more mischievous. "Actually, if you're into it, what I _really_ want is to fuck you until you scream."

Heat spreads like a wildfire, moving out from the lightning that struck his balls and then licking up to his face, down to his toes. " _You_ want that?" Stiles squeaks "I mean, I've got no problem with, uh, yeah. I just wondered if you were asking for you, or because that's what Boyd told you he wants to do."

Isaac shakes his head, gaze dropping. "Boyd never brought up any specifics. I, uh, think he thinks I get jealous. Of him and Erica."

"Oh." Stiles kind of wants to probe at that, because as much as Boyd and Erica are a thing, there's always an element of IsaacandErica and BoydandIsaac when they're out and about. He doesn't get why it isn't Boyd and Erica and Isaac, not when the three of them are obviously open to alternate configurations.

It's not really a question he wants to get into right now. Besides. His cock is much more interested in the 'getting fucked' part of the conversation.

"Yeah, that's, wow," Stiles says, licking at his dry mouth. "Okay, but, seriously? I didn't even think you liked me all that much."

"I like you!" Isaac says, sounding wounded. Like he's never smirked over his shoulder when Scott decided to hang out with him instead of Stiles. Like he's never played keep away in lacrosse practice, laughing at Stiles' merely human abilities.

Stiles raises his eyebrows and makes a 'go on, explain that one to me' motion with his hands.

Isaac sighs. "I like you," he says more quietly. "Just, uh, for a long time, I kinda resented you for what you have."

"Resented me," Stiles says flatly. He's about to lay into Isaac for that, because seriously, what the hell does Stiles have that's enviable?—when the deductive skills his completely awesome dad trained into him kick in. His eyes betray him this time, flicking towards the basement door before he can drag his gaze back to Isaac's face.

"Yeah, well." Stiles gropes for something to say. "I mean, who hasn't been jealous of the Stilinski milkshake a time or two?"

A grin flashes across Isaac's face, breaking the prickly tension that has built up in the room like a static charge. 

Stiles nods, jabbing his thumbs towards his chest. "Uh-huh. That's right, it takes a lot to handle this jelly."

"Is that so," Isaac murmurs, still grinning as he reaches out and yanks Stiles up out of his chair. Stiles stumbles forward, totally shocked by the move, but Isaac just hauls him in close, so their chests are pressed together and Stiles has to crane his head back to meet Isaac's gaze. "Is that enough to handle you, do you think? Or did you have something else in mind?"

"Sometimes I forget how strong you guys are," Stiles says, smoothing his hands over the muscles right in front of him. He's always thought of Isaac's build as similar to his own, tending more towards tall and scrawny than broad and built, but no, skin and bones Isaac is not. "Have you actually done that before? Fucked somebody?"

"Up the ass?" Isaac asks, eyebrow daring. "Not a guy, but yeah. I think the mechanics are pretty much the same."

"Let's hope so," Stiles mutters. "I haven't. Had anybody fuck me, I mean. I've played around some on my own, but...."

"Hey," Isaac says, curling his hand around the back of Stiles' neck in a way that should make him feel like a scruffed puppy, but instead feels warm and comforting. "I'll be careful. I know I've been a dick to you sometimes, but pain is not a turn-on for me."

"Okay, good." Stiles licks his lips. His body is suddenly hyper-aware that sex is on the menu. "So did you want to do this now, or—"

"Now is good," Isaac says. He lets go of the back of Stiles' neck, then, rather sweetly, he takes Stiles by the hand and leads him through the kitchen, down a hallway and into a bedroom. Isaac's childhood bedroom, going by the multitude of posters on the wall.

"Aaron Peirsol? Fan of the backstroke?"

"Nah, not really," Isaac says, smile slipping sideways into sly. "He's just a hell of a lot hotter than Phelps or Lochte, and it kept my dad off my back about the comics stuff, for the most part."

Stiles knows he needs to stop acting like an awkward rabbit every time a reminder of Mr. Lahey comes up, zigging and zagging from one subject to the next, but that's like saying Scott needs to stop being sweet or Lydia needs to stop being fierce. It ain't gonna happen.

"Diving's always been more my thing," Stiles says at last, eyeing the supplies Isaac is pulling out of his bedside drawer. "Matthew Mitcham, you know?"

"Mmm. So you like lithe and flexible, huh?" Isaac asks, smirking as he straightens, and Stiles realizes that description could very well refer to Isaac. "Can't fault your taste. I like 'em a little cuter, though. More like Tom Daley." His gaze sweeps up Stiles before he smiles, dimples creasing his cheeks, and it's obvious who he has in mind. "Darker hair, adorable nose, big smile."

Stiles flushes. His whole perception of himself has been turned upside down since Thursday. Once he realized he wasn't really in love with Lydia, sometime around the whole Jackson incident, he kind of gave up on finding anyone else to fill that void—and nobody ever seemed to be looking for him to fill theirs, either.

Maybe he's just been oblivious.

Stiles clears his throat. "How do you want to do this?"

Isaac steps closer, close enough that Stiles has to look up again. "Is it okay if I kiss you?"

"I've, uh, never kissed a guy before," he blurts, which, on reflection, is kind of stupid. But he's thinking about Danny, wondering what it might have been like if he just would have asked for what he wanted. Danny's in the past, though. Isaac is the one looking down at him now, eyebrows steepled curiously, mouth pulling up enough on one side to dimple his cheek. "But that would be good. Us kissing, I mean. Definitely."

"A first for both of us, then," Isaac says, and then he's dipping his head, brushing his lips against Stiles'. It's a little weird at first, having to tip his head up instead of down, like he did with Lydia, and Isaac's mouth is bigger than hers, but after a couple of seconds everything fits together just fine. The spark comes more quickly than it did that first time with Lydia, like the shock of blue leaping from the plug to the socket in the dark. Only Isaac's lips are the plug and Stiles' balls are the socket...and he's not sure whether that metaphor has gone horribly wrong or enticingly right. Stiles doesn't really care, not when Isaac's controlling his mouth and leading him backwards at the same time, easing them both down onto the bed without ever letting up.

He's still got his shoes on. Ridiculously, that's the first thought that goes through his head when Isaac finally pulls away long enough that they can both suck down some air. Isaac's hair could compete with Medusa's, going every which way, and oh, hey, maybe that's because Stiles still has one of his hands buried in it, stroking and tugging like he's trying to card wool.

"I'm not sure that I'm going to be able to handle it if we get better with practice," Isaac says, and Stiles laughs, nervous tension he hadn't been aware of popping and floating out of him, like bubbles out of a bottle of champagne. 

"What, afraid you might _explode_?" Stiles snickers and rocks his hips up into Isaac's, mostly as a joke, but the joke turns on him when Isaac bears down, grinding against his half-hard cock.

"You're not funny, Stilinski," Isaac says, but he's smirking, obviously amused by something. "You know that, right? We took a vote."

"And what, declared me most fuckable?" Stiles asks, because why the hell not? It makes as much sense as anything that's happened in the last few days. "Also, weren't you praising my smart mouth just a second ago? You might want to rethink your whole 'insult Stiles' strategy thing you've got going on. I'm just saying."

"Maybe I'll just bite you instead," Isaac says, curling his upper lips. He's not flashing fang, but Stiles' heart skips at the reminder anyway, especially when Isaac drops back down, trailing his open mouth over Stiles' neck.

Having a werewolf's jaws at his throat shouldn't be anywhere near as hot as he's finding it.

"I thought you said you were going to bite me," Stiles dares breathily. Isaac's fingers clench deep into his shoulders, but it's the human teeth sinking into his skin that have him crying out. Jesus, how does that feel so good? He clutches at Isaac's head, urging him on, hips bucking with need. Arousal shivers down his arms, down his chest, through his groin, enough that Stiles wonders if maybe he can come if Isaac just keeps biting him for long enough.

Then Isaac pulls back, easily breaking the grip Stiles has on his head.

"What? Noooo," Stiles whines.

Isaac licks the spit away from his lips, staring down at Stiles' neck. "Um. Yeah, that's gonna bruise."

Stiles grabs at the spot, right on the side of his neck just above where it meets the slope of his shoulders, and yeah, it feels a bit tender. Not dissimilar from that _just got whacked by a lacrosse ball_ sponginess he's so familiar with, though it doesn't hurt, not really.

"Sorry," Isaac says, a bit offhand, like he knows he needs to apologize but is too caught up inspecting the results of his handiwork (mouthwork?) to really put any effort into it. He pushes Stiles' hand away with gentle fingers, sending more shivers through Stiles as he traces over the imminent mark. "That didn't hurt?"

"When you did it?" Stiles shakes his head. "It felt freakin' fantastic."

"I don't bruise anymore," Isaac says, and yeah, he's not entirely in the room right now. "Getting hurt's still painful, though."

"Well, you didn't hurt me," Stiles says. He pushes against Isaac, and Isaac goes, moving back enough that Stiles can struggle upwards. He pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it out into the middle of the room, and drops back down to the bed, arms splayed wide. "Have at me, dude."

"Yeah," Isaac says, nodding slowly, but not yet making a move, so Stiles pulls a hand in, running it up his belly before pinching his own nipple. Isaac's gaze snaps to it, like the zoom on a camera finally lurching into place, and that seems to flip the switch on everything else. He tears his shirt off over his head and then dives back down. "Tell me if it gets to be too much."

"If what does—?" Stiles starts to ask, but Isaac's already lowering his head, biting gently into the flesh above his pec. It doesn't hit him quite as intensely as being bitten on the neck did, but it's still good. Isaac lets up, but immediately moves over to his upper arm, really digging his teeth into the tough muscle there, and who the fuck knew arms were an erogenous zone? 

"Don't stop," he rushes out when Isaac backs off, but it's okay because he's just moving on, moving over to give Stiles' other side the same treatment. 

He stares up at the ceiling, swallowing compulsively as Isaac makes his way down Stiles' torso, breaking briefly away to lick and nip at Stiles' nipples. He's diamond hard long before Isaac crosses the expanse of his ribs, and by the time Isaac sinks his teeth into Stiles' waist, on the side where he knows Scott was bitten, where Isaac probably was too, he's writhing on the bed, feet dragging and kicking at the sheets.

Isaac hesitates, hands resting on the button of Stiles' jeans. Stiles' breath hitches. Isaac's mouth is hot against his belly, so close to his groin. Lydia teased him a few times Friday night, but she never followed through, not with her mouth, and _God_ , Stiles wants to know how a blowjob feels, so bad.

"Please," he says, lifting his hips. Isaac takes the unsubtle hint and opens his jeans, barely brushing over Stiles' dick before he starts pulling them down. He backs off the end of the bed, taking the jeans with him until he gets to Stiles' shoes.

Isaac snorts, paused with his hands above the laces of Stiles' Chucks. "Your feet better not smell like old cheese."

Stiles leans up, braced on his elbows, and raises an eyebrow. "Dude. It's not my fault you've got a werewolf nose. That is all on you, not me. Besides. I keep these babies in tip-top condition." He taps his toes together. "Cross-country and lacrosse, remember?"

"That's why I brought it up," Isaac says dryly, but he tugs the laces loose with quick movements, then slips off first the left, then the right. It's kind of strange, not something Stiles associates with the erotic, but his breathing picks up every time Isaac's fingers brush against his ankle or the top of his foot. Together they get his jeans the rest of the way off, Isaac tugging and Stiles shoving with his feet, and then Isaac steps back, shimmying out of his own pants.

All the way out.

Stiles swallows. He hadn't really paid much attention to Danny's size, other than to note his cock was well within average range, more concerned at first with what to do with it, and then how it felt in his hand. Isaac's pretty average, too, maybe a little bigger than Stiles, maybe not. Certainly not a monster dong, not like some he's seen in porn. But while Stiles has fantasized about getting fucked—many a time—this is the first time he's ever contemplated the cock that's about to do the fucking.

"Changed your mind?" Isaac asks softly. Damn werewolf senses.

"Just a little nervous," Stiles says, shaking his head. His hand's creeping towards his own dick, because now he's really thinking about it, thinking about how hard he's come every time he stuffed his fingers up his own ass. "But I'm good. Really good. About to get better, hopefully."

Isaac smirks. He juts his chin in the direction of Stiles' crotch. "Then you better take them off, don't you think?"

"Right." Stiles shoves his hips up so he can yank his underwear down and off. He drops back down to find Isaac avidly watching him, smirk completely gone as he climbs back onto the bed. He runs his hands up Stiles' inner thighs, chasing butterflies all the way up, but stops short of where Stiles wants him to.

Isaac sits back on his heels. "Turn over."

"Already?" Stiles squeaks. Isaac's pointed eyebrow says he's being ridiculous, so Stiles pulls his leg up and around Issac's knees and squirms until he's settled face down on the bed, Isaac's musky pillow stuffed under his cheek. He twists his neck so he can get a glimpse of Isaac, still kneeling between his legs. "This good?"

"Perfect." Isaac moves forward, stretching out on top of Stiles, though he doesn't drop his full weight down on top of him. His cock rests above Stiles' sacrum, his balls hanging down lower, bumping against Stiles's ass cheeks every time Isaac shifts, and combined with the soft brush of his pubic hair the effect is...really itchy, actually. Stiles tries to put it out of his head, focus on what's about to happen rather than the constant tickle, but he can't help wriggling a little. He has to force himself to not reach back and scratch at his ass.

"Relax," Isaac murmurs—and then he bites down on Stiles' shoulder. Hard.

"Holy fuck," Stiles yelps. His body's torn between opposing impulses: to shove his ass up against Isaac's cock or grind his dick down into the sheets, to push his shoulder back into Isaac's mouth, urge him to bite harder, deeper, or cringe away and protect his soft human flesh. He winds up doing a little of everything, but Isaac doesn't seem to mind, moving over to bite at his other shoulder and working his way on down.

"I love how much you're getting off on this," Isaac says, right before he bites right under Stiles' bottom rib. Stiles half-groans, half-laughs, as his muscles flutter and skate. 

"Wanna see what happens when I go lower?"

"Oh, my God, please," Stiles pants out. He figures his ass is next on the menu, but Isaac skips right over it, pressing his face into the crease between thigh and butt cheek. "Oh, fuck—" he starts, but Isaac's already opening his mouth, already biting down. It's too much, his hamstrings too sensitive, and Stiles pounds the mattress with his fist, torn between crying out for more and begging for Isaac to stop.

"Too much?" Isaac doesn't wait for him to answer, just starts licking at the spot he bit, then trailing his tongue all the way down to the back of Stiles' knee.

"Oh, God, oh God, stop," Stiles says, trying to crawl all the way up the bed even though he's got nowhere to go. "Tickles!"

Isaac snorts. More importantly, he stops. There's a moment when nothing happens, when Stiles is catching his breath and wondering whether he dares tell Isaac to keep going, and then Isaac stretches to the side, grabbing the bottle of lube from the nightstand.

"Yeah," Stiles says, spreading his legs a little more as he relaxes into the pillow under his head. He'd tensed up so hard while Isaac was biting—and tickling—him that now he feels like electrified mush. Aroused like crazy but with no desire whatsoever to move. "I'm just gonna lay here," he mumbles, waving his free hand back at Isaac. "Feel free to have your wicked werewolf way with me. No, really, please feel free."

"I am in awe of your survival instincts," Isaac snarks, but Stiles doesn't care because he's also started to knead at Stiles' ass, squeezing the tight cheek muscles and working his thumbs ever closer to crack between.

"That feels good," Stiles says. He feels so limp. (Not counting his dick.) If Isaac picked up his arm and then let it drop, Stiles wouldn't even be bothered to do anything more than watch it fall back down to the bed. Isaac spreads his cheeks apart and holds them there, like he's staring at Stiles' asshole, and that would be weird, embarrassing, except for the part where he just wants Isaac to do whatever he wants to with his body.

He hears the plastic snick of the lube being opened—

"Oh, holy fuck, that's cold," Stiles gasps, jerking and wriggling as the lube Isaac's pouring on him dribbles down his balls, probably soaking the sheets underneath him. "You couldn't have warned me? Warmed it up a little, maybe?"

Isaac chuckles. "Sorry," he says, but he doesn't sound sorry at all. "I just wanted to see your reaction."

"Yeah, well, hope you were satisfied," Stiles grumbles. He's starting to feel gooey, and not in that luscious, bone-melting way he had been. He squeezes his butt muscles, trying to spread the lube around a little more comfortably.

"Relax." Isaac bends forward to press his teeth against the fleshy part of Stiles' ass, not really even biting down. Just reminding Stiles what those bites felt like earlier. "I'm done being a jerk, promise."

"Better be," Stiles says, but then Isaac reaches under him, cupping his dick, squeezing it a couple times before he slides back down to fondle Stiles' balls. "Aaand you're showing improvement already."

"Good to know," Isaac says, right before he moves upwards, stroking his fingers over Stiles' perineum and circling his asshole.

"Oh, wow," Stiles chokes out. The whole lube incident is forgotten, gone from his mind, because just that simple touch feels fantastic. "God, don't tease me, damn it."

"I'm teasing myself," Isaac says. He sets the tip of one finger against Stiles' hole and just leaves it there. "You have no idea how hot you are, do you?"

Stiles swallows. He can feel the heat building in his face, the need to both protest Isaac's words and to beg him for more. He finally shakes his head, curling his fists into the sheets while Isaac draws his finger around the rim of his hole.

"You remember Danny's birthday party? At the Jungle, when you wore those super-tight jeans?" Isaac starts pushing the tip of his finger in, almost idly, and it's all Stiles can do to make himself nod. "That's when I really started thinking about fucking you. What it'd be like to drag you back to one of the stalls and hold you up against the wall while I fucked my way into you."

Stiles lets out a long, desperate groan. He's not entirely sure that he would have wanted his first time to be like that, rough and semi-public and probably way too fast, but the idea is hot, especially the part where somebody besides himself was thinking about getting him off.

Isaac nudges the tip of a second finger into him. He's not going deep at all, just sort of pushing the lube into Stiles and spreading him open. Stiles pushes his butt back, trying to get more, but Isaac, damn him, pulls out completely.

"Come on, dude. You're a good guy. You don't need to tease yourself," Stiles says. "Just go for what you want."

Isaac laughs. Stiles can hear him pick up the bottle again, but it's not long before Isaac's attention is back on him, easing one slick finger inside, slow and deep. Stiles groans. It's so much better than when he's done this to himself, Isaac's fingers sliding in at the perfect angle. Stiles starts rocking into the bed, dragging his dick across the soft sheets while he fucks himself on Isaac's finger. This is all he needs to get off, really.

Though he's not about to complain when Isaac traps his hips so he can slide a second finger in alongside the first.

"I knew you'd be hungry for it," Isaac says after he lets Stiles start moving again. "I could smell it on you."

The blush rises so fast this time it feels like a winter burn, that sudden flood of blood that comes from stepping out of a warm house into the freezing cold. It's true, though; he's been non-stop horny since the day his dick came online. Stiles burrows his arms under the pillow and turns his face into the cradle he's formed, ignoring the lingering heat in his face. From what he's said and done so far, Isaac is way into him. All Stiles has to worry about is whether Isaac's actually going to get around to fucking him before he comes.

"You want three?" Isaac asks.

Stiles nods. "Might as well," he says, even though he's never quite managed three himself. Mostly because he always gets too impatient. He makes himself hold still, his own breath reflected back hot against his mouth, his nose, as he pants into the sheets beneath his face. Isaac pulls his first two fingers back, just edging his hole, and then Stiles feels the press and stretch of three trying to make their way in.

Isaac bites his ass.

"Holy fuck!" Stiles yelps, because it felt like there was a bit of fang involved this time. He doesn't care. Isaac's got three fingers inside of him now, pumping slowly, easing him through the achy resistance of his muscles. It doesn't take long for the burn of the stretch to fade away. "Ugh. God, that's good."

"Yeah?" Isaac grinds his fingers down, and hot damn, that has to be his prostate. "You about ready? You ready to get fucked, Stiles?"

"Just do it," Stiles pants, a little frisson shooting through his belly as Isaac pulls his fingers out. There's a sound of something ripping open; Stiles looks over his shoulder, surprised when he sees Isaac rolling a condom onto his dick. "I thought werewolves didn't get STDs?"

Isaac's focused on what he's doing, eyelids low as he bites his lip, but he shrugs. "They don't, but werewolf healing doesn't magically get rid of the mess," he says, then slaps Stiles' butt. "Come on, up on your hands and knees. It's easier that way."

Stiles opens his mouth to say something snarky about advanced porn positions, but Isaac nudges the head of his cock against Stiles' asshole, and all his wit dries up along with the saliva in his mouth. Isaac grips his hips with both hands, thumbs rubbing reassuringly, and then he starts to push forward.

It is not the greatest feeling Stiles has ever experienced.

He sucks in a huge bellyful of air, then bears down like he's read about doing, before he lets everything relax again. Isaac keeps going, as slow and unstoppable as a glacier, and Stiles' body somehow keeps accommodating him.

"You okay?" Isaac asks at last.

Stiles nods, head hanging down. His erection has drooped quite a bit; apparently he's not one of the lucky dudes who can get fucked and still keep it up. Or at least he isn't right out of the gate. He shifts his hips, just the slightest amount, trying to decide how he feels.

"You sure?" Isaac asks.

"Getting there," Stiles says, voice tight. He forces himself to take a few more rib-stretching breaths, like he learned to do with his panic attacks, and the whole body tension that's overtaken him starts to ease. "It's just really intense."

"Yeah," Isaac croaks, fingers digging into Stiles hips. It's the most affected he's sounded since they started making out, and part of Stiles thinks _thank God_. "Fuck, Stiles. Please tell me you're okay. I'm about to pop a nut."

He takes a few more breaths. He feels _really_ full, and his body wants to bear down again, force Isaac out. Isaac strokes his hand across Stiles' low back, awkwardly petting him—and that's when the resistance fades away. He's not sure if Isaac called up some mysterious werewolf mojo or if his muscles just finally tipped over the edge, but dude, it's so much better now.

"I'm good," he says, and oh, hey, he's starting to feel turned on again. "Just go slow, okay?"

"Yeah, sure," Isaac says breathily, and then he starts pulling out. Stiles chokes, because woah, if he thought it was intense before, that's nothing compared to the way his nerves are sparking now. Isaac pushes back in again, and oh, God, Stiles isn't even sure if he's in pain or turned on more than he ever has been.

Either way, he doesn't want to stop. Ever.

"Oh, fuck!" he yelps as Isaac thrusts in, harder this time. "Oh, fuck yes."

"Yeah?" Isaac pulls back and then thrusts back in even harder. "You like that."

"Oh, my God, just fuck me," Stiles orders, shoving his hips back to meet Isaac, trying to get his cock in as deep as possible. He glances down at himself, and yep, he's hard again. He starts to reach for himself, but then Isaac slams in again and Stiles just barely gets his hand down on the bed before he winds up face first in the sheets.

"Fuck, Stiles," Isaac groans. "You feel so good."

Stiles collapses to his elbows, whimpering as Isaac really starts pounding into him. He's always thought that slap-slap-slap jackhammer rhythm of porn was a bit ridiculous, even though it turned him on, but now, when it's his asscheeks meeting Isaac's groin, it doesn't matter one bit. All he cares about is the way every stroke makes him harder, drives him crazy with the way it feels like he's a second from coming, but never does. He turns his head to the side, shoulders braced against the bed, and tries to reach for himself again. It's no good, because as soon as Isaac slams in again, Stiles goes sliding, werewolf strength easily overcoming his precarious grip on the sheets.

"Sorry," Isaac says, hauling him back onto his dick. "I'll get you off, I swear it, I just gotta—" 

Isaac thrusts in a few more times and then lets out a long, desperate-sounding groan, fingers clamping tight around Stiles' hips as he comes. Stiles grinds his ass back, a little disappointed that it's over already, but now he can get his hand on himself, jerk himself off while he's still got Isaac thick in his ass. His shoulders ache, he can hardly breath with his face smashed into the sheets, but he doesn't care, hand flying over his dick. He's almost there when Isaac reaches around and takes over, grip firm and confident and most of all, fast.

Stiles comes so hard he his vision greys out for a second.

"Oh, God," he groans as Isaac gentles him down. "Oh, fuck, I don't know if I'm ever going to be able to come again."

Isaac laughs softly. "I know what you mean," he says. He swipes his hand on the already messy sheet, then starts to ease back, out of Stiles' ass. Stiles winces, because woah, it kind of feels like they melded together in there, the sting as Isaac pulls out Bandaid-ripping sharp.

"Sorry," Isaac says, rubbing his hand over Stiles' hip. "I'm not sure how to make that part better."

"Eh," Stiles says as he lets himself collapse all the way down onto the bed. It means pretty much his whole front gets coated with his own spunk, but he'll get up the energy to be grossed out after he's had the chance to catch his breath. "I can handle it, if the rest is always that good."

"You liked it, then?" Isaac asks, sounding shy again.

Stiles rolls his head to the side, eyes straining back as he tries to see the expression on Isaac's face. He understands the urge to ask, to know for sure that he's pleased his partner—but dude. Stiles very obviously got off.

"It was passable," Stiles says. "Points off for lack of cum shot."

Isaac snorts. "Smartass," he says, right before pinching said ass. Stiles yelps and tries to wriggle away from Isaac's evil fingers, but that just makes Isaac laugh again.

"Mmm," he says, mouthing at Stiles' hip again before he sits down on the edge of the bed. "I had a lot of fun. Thanks."

Stiles flushes. Okay, yeah, being thanked for sex is a little weird, (sorry, Danny), but at the same time it feels good, too. Like his bedroom skills were up to task. He shrugs one shoulder. "It was good, man. Thanks for asking me."

Isaac squeezes his hip. "You can have the shower first, if you want. I'm not in any hurry."

"Oh." Stiles was just starting to get comfortable, that hazy afterglow creeping up from his balls, dragging his eyelids down towards the land of nod, but never let it be said that Stiles Stilinski doesn't know a hint when he hears one. He might not act on it, but he knows one. He pushes himself over onto his side, bringing up a friendly smile. "Yeah, that sounds good. I'll just—"

"The bathroom is the door right next to mine," Isaac says, standing up. "Towels under the sink."

"Great." Stiles climbs off the bed, ignoring his wobbly knees and the weird way his ass feels too open, and gathers up his clothes.

Isaac stops him with a hand on the shoulder. "Just," he says, and then leans in, kissing Stiles softly.

It's nice.

"Let me know if you need me to wash your back," Isaac says, winking, and Stiles laughs. 

Yeah, he's got this casual sex thing down just fine.

Mostly, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexualized biting, with possible bruising. References to physical abuse in Isaac's past.


	5. Allison & Scott

Scott corners him outside the lunchroom on Monday. They don't have that many classes together this year, but they usually manage to find each other in the hall a few times every morning. Stiles maybe, sorta, _possibly_ might have been avoiding Scott today. He's showered like a million times since all the activity this weekend. Werewolf noses _can't_ be that good. Except Scott's urging him down the corridor, shoving a little too urgently, and Stiles has a sinking feeling that maybe they really are.

"But," he protests, sending a longing look back towards his favorite room in the whole building. "Dude. _Chicken fingers_."

"Later," Scott says, leading him out into the vacant courtyard. He pushes Stiles towards one of the benches, then sits down himself. "Okay, dude. Spill."

"Spill? You're going to have to tell me what you're talking about, because—" Scott raises a disbelieving eyebrow, and Stiles' whole innocent facade crumbles like a house on the San Andreas. "Oh, God, I knew it. You can totally smell it on me, can't you?"

"What?" Scott's nose wrinkles. "Ew, no! You showered, right?"

"Of course!" Well, at least he now he knows some things are still sacred. "Wait. So how do you know?"

Scott rolls his eyes. "Isaac freaked out at me this morning, worried I'd be all pissed because he defiled my best friend."

Stiles drops his head down to his hands with a groan. "I'm pretty sure I've got nothing left to be filed after the weekend I've had."

Scott's quiet for a long moment. "I think you need to start from the beginning."

Stiles does. He spills it all, with more detail than he probably should, but this is Scott, whose eyes get wider right along with his grin. He spits out _woahs_ and _dudes_ at gratifying intervals, and by the time Stiles winds down, he's feeling less like he got lost on a porn set and more like he's living the most awesome life ever.

"The crazy thing is," Stiles says after they've sat there for a few empty breaths, boggled by the very existence of his sex life, "I'm still nervous about the thing with Erica and Boyd. I mean, I don't think I'm going to completely embarrass myself. But, you know, threesome."

Scott nods. "Lots more arms and legs. And geometry."

Which says it all, since Scott hated geometry almost as much as Stiles and Mr. Harris hate each other. Stiles waves a hand. "You know how I am. What are the odds I break something important trying to get everything lined up right?"

"Pretty high," Scott agrees absentmindedly. He's got that look on his face, the distant, bull-about-to-charge one that says he's just had an idea. Stiles' muscles tighten with Pavlovian anticipation; that look always signals brilliance—or disaster.

"What are you thinking?" he asks. "Just tell me. You know it's never good when you keep these things to yourself."

"Sometimes it is," Scott says, and God, he's got the bit in his teeth. Stiles grabs his wrist when he stands up, but Scott just uses that grip to haul Stiles up beside him. "Come by my house after school, okay? I've got to figure a few things out first."

"But—" Stiles protests, but Scott gives him a werewolfy shove in the direction of the doors.

"If you hurry, you can still get some of those chicken fingers," he says, and Stiles, this once, lets his hunger win out over his curiosity.

* * *

"You can't be serious," Stiles says as Allison shrugs and bites at her smile. She's— He's— No. Whatever's happened the last three days, nothing's prepared him for this.

"It's okay if you don't want to," Scott says, so earnestly his face has drooped halfway down to his chest."It's just that you're the only one we trust, and, well."

"The only one we want," Allison says, eyes sparkling knowingly. It's like she just reached out and grabbed his dick. Stiles shifts his stance, then glances back at Scott. This is a serious violation of the bro code. Or it would be if Scott hadn't brought it up in the first place. Stiles isn't sure what to think about that.

"You, uh, really want to?" he asks, flinging the question out for whoever buzzes in first, though he really means it for both. "Because if this is some 'make sure Stiles doesn't kill himself boning werewolves' thing, you don't have to. I'll die happy, if nothing else."

"Of course we do!" Scott blurts. "Allison's only been fantasizing about it forever, you dope."

"Scott!" Allison's even prettier than usual when she blushes. Stiles doesn't avert his eyes, not like he usually would, taking in the way her long eyelashes frame her Bambi eyes and how the lines from lazy dimples gather above her flickering smile. She blushes more as he stares at her, all across her cheeks, but she doesn't back down from his gaze. If anything, the look in her eyes becomes more certain. Full of more heat.

"You don't think it'll be too weird?" he asks Scott, never looking away from Allison. "'Cause as close as we are, I'm pretty sure you were never okay with getting up close and personal with my dick before this."

"You don't have to make it sound so—"

Stiles swings around to face him. "What, gay?"

Scott humphs. " _Incestuous._ It's not like it'd be morally wrong or anything."

Stiles sighs. "No. I know. I just don't want things to get weird between us. You know I couldn't handle it if I lost you, dude."

"I'm pretty sure it's the other way around," Scott says. "Not gonna happen. _Ever._ "

Stiles' throat fills up. He really, rather desperately, wants to hug Scott, and not like a quick bro hug, either. Then it occurs to him that if they're going to do this thing, the barriers he normally puts up to keep his and Scott's relationship in the right shoe box don't really need to be there. He steps forward, wrapping his arms around Scott, relieved when Scott grabs him back without hesitation. 

"So is that a yes?" Allison asks.

"Yeah. Um, sure." Stiles steps back from Scott, looking between him and Allison. They're both grinning: Scott like he did after he found out Stiles won the state championship for the lacrosse team, Allison like she's just spotted a really gorgeous crossbow she can't wait to try out. "When were you thinking? Because I could pencil you in just about anywhere between now and Thursday, but keep in mind the craziest shit keeps popping up lately...."

The front door slams. A second later, Mrs. McCall calls out, "Scott?"

"That would be a 'no' on right now," Allison says.

"Tomorrow after school?" Scott asks. He's starting to dimple up. It's a ridiculously good look for him. "My mom's going to be on second shift."

Stiles nods. He thinks there's fairly good odds one of them will chicken out between now and then, but maybe it'll also give him time to wrap his head around the idea. "Works for me. Should I just..."

He trails off as Allison closes in on him, setting her palms lightly against his chest. "Just so you can't second guess our intentions," she says. Right before she kisses him.

Stiles' heart starts pounding, at first because it's freaky and wrong, and he wants to turn and tell Scott _God, I'm sorry, my lips slipped and fell on hers_ , but then she whispers _relax_ against his mouth. The little puff of cinnamon air tickles, sends shivers down his back, and he parts his lips and leans in without thinking about it. Her tongue brushes against his, and Stiles wants to chase it, open his mouth wide and lose himself in her, but then Scott grabs his arm, hissing, _Stiles_ under his breath.

"What, dude?" he snaps—and then Mrs. McCall pops her head into the doorway.

"Stiles!" she chirps, and he would feel guilty about how happy she is that she thinks he's some kind of chaperone for her son, but his heart is pounding too hard, from almost getting caught, from the lingering feel of Allison's lips against his.

He's pretty sure tomorrow is going to be the best day ever.

* * *

Tuesday is hell. 

The school day drags on, torturously slow, and he can't even be grateful that he now has a taste of what Thursday's going to be like. It's bad enough that he has to go through this anticipation once, let alone twice. Scott and Allison keep giving him looks all day, the kind of blushing, darting glances that have him fidgeting with tension and dropping shit way more often than usual

Somehow he manages to get through all his classes without picking up a detention, though he really has no idea what they covered or if he even has homework tonight. Scott grins at him before he dashes off on his bike, and Allison waves before she climbs behind the wheel of her car.

He figures it's pure luck none of them get into an accident on the way over to Scott's house.

He's still catching his breath from dashing up the stairs to Scott's room when Allison steps into his arms, pressing her lips to his. She groans into his mouth, bringing her hands up to clutch at the back of his head, and god, she really does want this. Him. She's fantasized about _him_ , and that's as much of a turn on as the flex of the smooth, strong muscles of her back under his hands. Stiles breaks the kiss with a gasp.

"You guys look good together," Scott says, eyes speculative, but not in a bad way. He's still got his backpack dangling from one hand. He drops it onto his desk, then stalks over to them, slow, graceful, kind of slinky. Stiles isn't sure whether he's showing off or moving out of some kind of instinctual werewolf mating drive, but either way, it sends his pulse pounding.

Scott crowds in against Allison's side, hand clenching on Stiles' waist, and kisses her with the passion that always zings between the two of them. Allison groans again, then giggles a little, and Scott draws back, smiling.

"Mmm, this is nice," she says. Then she looks between the two of them like she's coming up with a battle plan. "Would it be too weird if you two kissed? I mean, I don't want to pressure you. I just think it'd be hot."

Stiles shrugs. He's not going to be the one to say no, not unless he's sure it'd freak Scott out. He mostly doesn't look at Scott that way, because the best friend thing they've got going on is pretty much the best thing ever, but Scott's an attractive guy. It's not like it'd be a hardship. It's the thought of Scott wrinkling his nose, holding up his hands to ward off how gross kissing Stiles would be, that makes him hold his tongue.

"I'm in if you are," Scott says, looking straight at Stiles.

Stiles swallows. "Uh. Sure. If it's not going to be awkward or anything."

"Nah," Scott says, grinning his 'I'm the shit' grin. "I've got the whole guy-kissing thing down. These lips are Olympic-level guy-kissing lips."

"What are you talking about?" Stiles punches Scott in the shoulder. "You never told me you've kissed a guy."

"Remember that time me and Danny had to lie low to avoid the alpha pack?"

Stiles nods. They'd ducked into the Jungle while Stiles and Derek took off in the Jeep, but they hadn't had time to exchange lengthy stories afterwards, just a quick, _yeah, it was cool_ and _oh, my God, did you know Derek can lift a bus_ each.

"So you're saying...."

"When in Rome, dude." Scott grins again. "Danny's the sweetest kisser ever, but Carl the bartender? Dude. I'm pretty sure your dad would go gay for him."

"Jeez, Scott, way to ruin the mood." Stiles scrubs his hands over his face, then peeks between his fingers, like that'll protect him from any future references to his dad. Scott's eyes have gone distant. Stiles tells himself he doesn't want to know, but that's a lie. He always wants to know what Scott is thinking. "What?"

"Do you think Armani would work on me? Because it always smells awesome on Danny."

Stiles twists up his mouth, trying to imagine it. "I think you'd just smell like a weird Danny."

"You're probably right," Scott says, and Allison snorts.

"Okay, I can tell I shouldn't have brought it up," she says. "Maybe we could go back to kissing me now? That part was good."

"No, wait," Scott says, and then he hooks his arm around Stiles' waist and reels him in.

It's more like their faces meet rather than their lips. Their noses are in the way and Scott has his eyes open and kind of crossed—and the fact that Stiles is noticing that means his are open, too.

The kiss is not awesome.

He knows that Lydia says that sometimes it takes a while for the good feelings to kick in, but dude. Stiles is pretty sure they don't have enough red on the lifebar left for them to get anywhere close to generating a spark between them. He pulls back at the same time Scott does, and they both laugh. 

"Wow. We so totally suck at that."

"Yeah," Stiles says. "So much for Olympic-level kissing skills."

Scott's mouth firms. Stiles knows that look. They've been best friends forever, and together they've never encountered a bridge they couldn't cross, wade under, or blow up. "I refuse to believe that. Come on, we've got this."

"You don't have—" Stiles starts to say, but then Scott moves in closer, getting both his hands on Stiles' waist. He tips his head up and slightly to the side, and it's like a chain reaction or something, because Stiles is lowering his head before he really thinks about it. Their lips brush together with no problems. Stiles isn't sure where to take it from there, but Scott opens his mouth and slips him some tongue.

It's...nice. 

Stiles brings a hand up to cup the back of Scott's head, guiding him into a deeper kiss. It's still nice, but it doesn't light him up, doesn't send the same zing down to his balls that kissing the others had, doesn't make him want to throw Scott down to the bed and fuck him till the cows come home. Or till some other, more werewolf-appropriate, measure of time occurs.

Stiles slowly pulls back, letting Scott go.

Scott grins. "See? Told ya."

Stiles snorts. "I will totally make you a gold medal out of construction paper later. Promise."

"As long as you make one for yourself, too. Team sport, after all." He winks, then backs away from Stiles enough so he can draw Allison back in, pulling her in between the two of them and kissing her neck. "Did you like that?"

"You were cute together," she says. Cute is a long way from hot, but she's looking at Stiles the same way Lydia did before she crawled up and sat on his face, so Stiles is pretty sure the kiss hasn't done anything to turn her off.

"So, hey, what's next?" he asks, brisking his hands together. "Anything specific, or are we just winging it here?"

Allison blushes. "Um. How do you feel about anal?"

"Uh." Stiles eyes flick to Scott. He can't help it, or help the heat crawling up his own face at the idea of Scott fucking him. He thinks maybe that's a bit too intimately over the bro-line, even for him. "Are we talking giving or receiving? Because—"

Allison is shaking her head furiously. "Giving. Um. To me."

"It's awesome," Scott says. "I mean, at least from my end it is. But you like it too, honey, right?"

Allison nods. "Yeah. We don't do it very often, because, well—"

"We're usually too impatient," Scott says. He laughs a little. "And sometimes we just don't have enough time together, you know?"

"Yeah, I _know_ ," Stiles says, because he can't count the number of times he's helped them orchestrate 'alone time,' whether it was because Chris Argent was PMSing about werewolves again or Scott's mom was on him about his grades or Derek thought he should be training more. Stiles never holds it against them, though, not unless he's having a really bad week, because he knows how much they love each other.

Scott shrugs and smiles and tucks his chin over Allison's shoulder. Allison's smiling too, watching Stiles with her fingers threaded through Scott's. They've always been adorable together, almost sickeningly so at times, but standing here now, within their circle of intimacy, Stiles only feels the adoration stretching to include them all.

He could say something, maybe about how hot this is or how much he friend-loves the both of them, but for once, he lets his actions do the talking. He sways forwards, cupping Allison's face so he can kiss her, while he reaches for Scott with his other hand, drawing them all closer together.

"If that's what you want," he murmurs. "I am completely on board with that idea."

Allison nods, her mouth dragging against his. "I've had a fantasy forever," she whispers. "Your arms around me while Scott kisses me. The two of you, taking me at the same time."

"Oh, mother of God," Stiles says, and Scott laughs.

"Isn't she awesome?"

"Yeah," Stiles says to Allison as she smiles at him. "Yeah, I'm getting that."

"You haven't seen anything yet." She steps more fully into his arms, away from Scott, tugging at the hem of his shirt while she kisses him again. Stiles tries to keep up, pulling the shirt up and over his head, losing her mouth for only the briefest instant.

"Dude," Scott says, the disbelief in his voice matching the way Allison's jaw has dropped. Stiles would preen, except Scott has seen him without a shirt a thousand times before. "What the hell?"

Allison rests her hand over his collar bone, gently, like she's afraid he'll break, and Stiles glances down at himself.

"Oh," he says. "Heh, yeah. I forgot about that."

"No wonder Isaac was freaking out," Scott says. He touches Stiles' back, fingers pressing lightly as he moves from spot to spot, and Stiles shivers. "You have hickeys _everywhere_."

"Not _everywhere_ ," Stiles says, watching as Allison's eyebrows climb in disbelief. "It's no big deal, promise! I just, uh, really like being bitten. Apparently."

"Apparently," Scott says. He squeezes Stiles' shoulders. "No judgement, dude. It's just a little freaky to look at."

"We might have gotten carried away," Stiles says. "It was one of those in the moment things, you know? I'm pretty sure Isaac had no idea he liked doing that, either."

"Yeah?" Allison asks, moving back in so she can rub her cheek against his. "So you like it a little rough?"

"Uh." Stiles' brain stalls out on the question, too many scenarios running through his head. "When you say rough, you mean...."

Allison immediately goes for his nipples, rubbing and twisting _hard_.

"Not that rough!" he squeaks, grabbing her hands. "Oh, my God, not actually a werewolf. They won't grow back if you pull them off."

"Sorry," Allison says sheepishly. "It's just that Scott—"

"Yeah, I figured," Stiles says, letting go of her hands. Allison immediately starts petting his chest, apologizing with her touch. "Hey, it's okay. As long as you don't rip my dick off, we're fine."

"Might want to mention that to Erica," Scott says, which freaks Stiles out all over again. 

"Hey," Allison says. "You'll be fine." She coaxes him into a slow, deep kiss that makes him forget everything but the here and now. He's vaguely aware of Scott's hands bumping around his belly, then his chest, but it isn't until Allison pulls back and raises her arms that he figures out what's going on. Scott undoes her bra and she slips it off, right before she pushes her warm, bare breasts into his chest.

"That's nice," he says, stupidly, because it's not nice, not at all in the way kissing Scott was nice. She lets out a little breathy laugh. Her back is silky under his hands, and he gives in to his impulse, wriggling his chest against hers like an otter at play, reveling in the drag of her hard nipples against his skin. Allison gasps and clutches at him.

"Mmm," Scott says, nuzzling at Allison's neck. He pushes his hands between them, cupping Allison's breasts, playing with her nipples. It's all good, especially the bit where Stiles is kissing Allison, really getting into it so that they're passing moans and gasps between them, when suddenly there is no more kissing. Suddenly, Allison is turning in his arms, moving on to Scott's mouth.

Stiles lets out a whimper of protest.

"Sharing is caring, dude," Scott laughs, and yeah, okay, Scott and Allison are pretty much the definition of caring right now. He can handle a little down time. Stiles brushes Allison's hair back from her neck, pressing a kiss right at the tempting spot where her neck meets the slope of her shoulder.

"Mmm," Allison murmurs. "I like being bitten, too. Just don't mark me up."

Stiles goes for it, though tentatively at first. Allison groans and drops her head back against his. When he increases the pressure, she shoves her ass back, rutting against his cock. He bites down on her neck again, harder this time, and her breathing picks up, her hips rolling against him as she lets out a desperate, breathy moan.

It's a surprise when Scott takes hold of Stiles' hands, guiding them up to Allison's breasts, because for some reason it hadn't even occurred to him that it's okay for him to do that. They don't fill his hands as much as Lydia's did, but he finds that it doesn't really matter. He still likes the weight of her breasts in his hands, likes the way she moans as he plays with her nipples, likes the velvet-soft firmness of them between his fingers. He'd like to get his mouth on them, see if she responds to the same things Lydia did, or if he can find some other way to use his oral fixation to make her happy.

Then, demonstrating the telepathy that comes from being best bros forever, Scott ducks down and starts sucking her nipple, tongue flicking between Stiles' fingers.

"Woah," Stiles says, because, A) kinda weird and ticklish, and B) wow, who knew the space between his knuckles had that many nerves?

"Scott, Scott," Allison pants out. " _Please._ "

Scott pulls away with a final flick of his tongue that has Stiles half-laughing, half-groaning—and then there's the sound of a zipper being undone, loud in the quiet of the bedroom. Scott works Allison's jeans down over her hips, dragging her delicate peach panties along with them. Stiles cranes his head down, staring through the valley of her breasts to glimpse dark hair down below. 

Scott flings the jeans and panties towards the chair in the corner of the room, then kneels down and pushes Allison's thighs far enough apart that she loses her balance and stumbles back into Stiles. He takes her weight gladly. He knows what's coming, is anticipating it almost as much as if his own dick were involved—and then Allison moans, deep and long and needy.

Stiles watches Scott's head bob and nod, just soaks up Allison's heavy breaths and the way she strains against him, but after a moment he figures out he can do more than play voyeur. He starts working Allison's nipples again, rolling them slowly between his fingers. He doesn't really have a goal in mind, other than to give Allison a little more sensation, but soon her moans change to a litany of _yes yes yes_. He bites down hard on her neck. Allison comes with a long, low wail, one hand reaching back to clutch at Stiles' shoulder.

Damn, he's glad her nails are short. She's got a grip from _hell_.

Scott stands up. He reaches through the tangle of Allison and Stiles' arms, clamps down on Stiles' ass, and pulls, guiding the three of them into a thrust and grind. Stiles' dick fits right between the bare swells of Allison's hot, sweet ass, and God, he could come from this. He's not far from of it, ready to say fuck it and just spill in his pants, sticky ride home be damned, when Scott lets go and steps back.

"Noooo," Stiles whines. "I was almost to the good part, dude."

Scott laughs. "Hang on. That was just the warm up."

Allison turns, wrapping her arms around Stiles' neck and pulling him down for a lazy kiss. Stiles groans into it, hungry and wanting.

"Mmm," Allison says. "I could kiss you all night long."

"Yeah," Stiles agrees breathily, because wow. Except. "We are going to get to other things, right?"

Allison laughs, kissing him again while she's still giggling, the sound buzzing against his lips. "Definitely," she says, kissing him quick before she steps back. 

Scott has been laudably goal-oriented in the meantime: he's naked and lounging on the bed, cock bobbing eagerly against his belly. The blankets have been kicked to the floor, and there's a pair of condoms and a bottle of lube ready and waiting.

"Come on," Allison says, tugging Stiles towards the bed. "Pants off, and then we can get to those other things."

"Right," Stiles says. While he's busy struggling out of his shoes, socks, jeans, and boxers, Allison makes a gymnastic dive onto the bed, tumbling across Scott and then rolling back into him. She's every bit as beautiful naked as Stiles always (guiltily) imagined she'd be. Stiles puts a knee down on the mattress, pausing to watch them for a moment.

They're so playful. That shouldn't surprise him, as well as he knows Scott, but it's different from what Stiles has experienced so far. Sex with Danny, while good, was perfunctory; with Lydia, it was almost ritualistic, like he was taking part in a carefully directed drama. With Isaac it was all hard, animalistic edges, barely curbed by Isaac's sweeter side.

Allison rolls on top of Scott, straddling his waist as she grabs for his wrists. Scott laughs as he dodges her grip, and they wind up in a ridiculously ineffective slap fight in mid-air. They both give up at the same time. Allison lunges forwards, but Scott takes advantage and rolls her under him.

Stiles has felt Scott's strength, more than once in a not-good way. Not that he blames Scott, not any more. Not now that he's learned how to control the Beast That Lurks Within. The point is, Stiles knows that Scott could seriously hurt Allison if he's not careful. It takes Stiles a moment, watching them wrestle and writhe their way across the bed like energetic kittens, to see the way Scott's muscles barely flex, the way he always lets go when she tenses, the way _Allison_ is the one in charge of the play fight.

"Come _on_ ," she pants, looking up at Stiles with that hunter gleam in her eye. "There's no way Team Human can win if you're just gonna watch."

"But watching has so much going for it," he says, pointedly staring at the neatly trimmed pubic hair between her legs. He climbs the rest of the way onto the bed, though, waiting for his chance. Allison squirms around until Scott's on his back, and that's when Stiles strikes.

"Here," he says, straddling Scott's hips and stretching up over Allison to grab Scott's wrists. He doesn't have any illusions that Scott couldn't break his hold, but with Allison sitting on his stomach, he's going to have to work a little harder to do it. "You know about the spot between his ribs, right? On his sides?"

"Bro foul!" Scott yelps, but Allison's already digging her fingers in. 

Scott freakin' full-out wolf howls.

"Dude," Stiles hisses. "Shut up! We so don't need company right now!"

The howl cuts off, Scott letting out a soft whine that's followed by a snorfling laugh. Stiles knows that laugh well, has caused it countless times before, but this is nothing like their innocent tickle fights of years past. Stiles is still hard, Scott too. Every time Scott bucks, his cock bumps against Stiles' balls. And then there's Allison. Stiles is pretty much on top of her, his cock nestled against her ass, occasionally sliding down against the slick warmth of her vulva.

Allison stops tickling. Scott's breathing loudly, raggedly, almost as bad as back when he had asthma, and Stiles isn't all that composed, himself.

"Now?" Scott asks.

"Now," Allison says firmly, laughing a little as she wriggles her ass right in front of Stiles. "Come on, get me ready."

Scott surges upwards, rolling so Stiles and Allison domino to the bed. Allison's half on top of Stiles, which would be awesome except for the part where there's a cold plastic bottle jabbing him in the kidneys.

"Here," Stiles says, fishing the lube out from under him and thrusting it at Scott. "I think you're gonna need this."

"Awesome." Scott grins at him, then Allison. "Maybe it'd be more comfortable like this," he says, tugging at them both until Stiles is on his side, snugged up to Allison, who's on her back. Then he lowers his hand between Allison's legs. "You can't see anything, can you? Too bad, this part is fun, too."

Allison actually rolls her eyes at the same time she lets out a breathy moan. She turns her head, finding Stiles' gaze. "You can do it, if you want."

"Yeah," Scott says, grinning. "Come on, man."

It's not like Stiles needs that much convincing; he's done it to himself plenty of times, and he also knows it's pretty fun getting it done to him, so he's more than willing to give it a go. Scott passes him the lube as Stiles wedges himself in beside Scott. Stiles pours a bunch onto his fingers, possibly way too much since it starts dripping everywhere, but in his experience a lot of lube is the right amount of lube.

"Go on," Allison says. She's breathing a little heavier than usual, like she's in the middle of a gentle warm up before a jog. "Just go slow and you won't hurt me."

"Yeah, I've got this," he says, flashing her a cocky smile, because it's not rocket science.

He's just a little unsure how to start.

Scott hasn't moved out of the way. Stiles twists his lips, considering, then basically lays the back of his hand into Scott's palm so everything's lined up perfectly. His own palm is cupped over Allison's mound, and he gives into the temptation to play around a little, rasping his thumb through her curls and slicking it between her labia.

"Not fair," Allison moans.

Scott laughs. "Focus, Stiles. I know you can do this."

"Shut up," Stiles shoots back, but without any heat. He pushes his middle finger forward, right up to the place where Scott already has two fingers buried. The skin surrounding her asshole is so taut that Stiles is scared of actually pushing in, afraid he might tear something. He chooses to believe Allison, though, and his own experience on the other side of this, and carefully presses a finger into her.

It's tight. So tight it feels like his finger is being strangled. Like not only is she cutting off his circulation, but is about to crush his bones, too.

"Are you sure this is okay?" he asks.

Allison nods, then lets out a breathy, happy sigh. The tension eases around him enough that his finger slides in further, slipping against Scott's.

"Oh, yeah," she says, sounding blissed out. Not entirely in the room at the moment.

"Here, take over." Scott tugs his fingers out. Stiles is still working his way in when Scott wriggles his head between the loop of Stiles' arms, chin pressing into Stiles' palm as he licks up into Allison's snatch.

"Oh, and I'm the one with the focus problems," Stiles says. Allison lets out a choking laugh that quickly turns to a moan. "I see what it is. Pick on the ADHD guy, then pull the 'can't talk, my mouth is full' line."

Scott chuckles, which makes Allison cry out. She's really into it now, rocking her hips in a jagged rhythm that Stiles struggles to keep up with. He lets his thumb drift forwards, under Scott's chin, sinking it into the wetness of her vagina.

"Oh, yeah," she breathes. She's writhing now, shoving her chest up into the air. "Yes, oh God, oh God, yesssssss!"

Scott lifts his head after her body unclenches. Stiles is slower to pull out; little fluttering contractions keep greeting his fingers, even after Allison sighs and opens her eyes. Scott's the one who finally urges him back.

"Ready?" Scott asks.

Allison nods, still blinking dazedly.

"How are we going to do this?" Stiles asks as Scott finds the condoms and passes one over. Stiles wipes his fingers off on Scott's sheets, but he still has to use his teeth to rip the package open. "I mean, logistically speaking."

"Scott on his back," Allison says, pushing herself up. "He'll have no trouble taking our weight. Plus, you're taller, Stiles."

"And okay, ladies and gentlemen, that sounds like a plan." Stiles rolls on the condom, and God, he's so hard now his balls are aching. He strokes himself a few times; he probably needs to be slicker than he is right now for anal, but the lube is.... Fuck. The lube is on the freakin' floor, halfway across the room. Stiles scrambles off the bed, guarding his dick with one hand.

"Stiles," Allison calls. She and Scott have flipped around on the bed so she's straddling Scott, hips tilted up to give him a perfect porn-cam view.

"Holy God," Stiles says, and drops the lube.

Allison laughs. "You might want to get that. You're up first."

"Yeah, okay, oh, my God, I'm going to die." Stiles has had sex. Several times now. At some point it would be nice if he stopped being completely overwhelmed by it when it happens. He does manage to get himself gooped up, nice and slick, then climbs onto the foot of the bed.

He's not sure whether to straddle Scott's legs or push them apart and climb between. He's still debating the logistical pros and cons when Scott solves the dilemma by planting his feet on either side of Stiles' knees—and now he's staring right at Scott's cock and balls. Which isn't a bad thing, but if he thinks about it too long he'll weird himself out.

"Okay," Stiles says, scooting forwards and setting his hand lightly on Allison's hip. "You ready?"

"Yeah," Allison says, looking back over her shoulder with a soft smile. "Remember, go slow at first."

"Believe me, I know." He takes his cock in hand and settles the swollen head against the warmth of Allison's hole. He takes a deep breath, lets it out, and slowly shifts his hips forward.

Nothing happens.

"Damn, sorry," he says as the the head of his cock skids upwards. "Um."

"You just gotta keep pushing," Scott says, like that's somehow different than what Stiles had done. "Steady pressure."

"You were almost there," Allison adds, wiggling her ass enticingly.

"Well, then," Stiles says, lining up again. "Here's hoping second time's the charm."

He does exactly what Scott said, keeping his hand on his dick this time, determined not to repeat the slip and slide maneuver. He doesn't remember Isaac having this much trouble getting into him, and he's wondering if maybe they haven't gotten Allison stretched enough. He's about to pull back, suggest they start over—and then the head of his cock pops through the first tight ring of muscle.

"Oh, God," he gasps, and Allison moans. His momentum carries him a little bit farther than he planned, but he catches himself, breathing deeply through his nose as he gets used to the feeling. Allison drops her head, and Stiles reaches up, stroking his thumb over the back of her neck. "Are you okay?"

"Keep going," she says. Stiles curls forwards so he can press a kiss to her shoulder. He kind of wishes they were doing this face-to-face, so he could see the way she looked at him, but then there'd be a little problem called where to put Scott.

Starting seems to have been the hardest part. Stiles slides forward in a slow, smooth glide, until he's all the way in, balls resting against Allison's vulva. Everything feels amazing. Different than it was with Lydia, but still incredible.

"Are you good?" Stiles asks, because he really wants to pull back and make his way back in, all over again. "Please say you're good."

"So, so good," Allison moans. "But wait, Stiles. You gotta wait."

Stiles drops his head to the smooth stretch of Allison's back. "Come on, Scott. I'm dying here."

"Yeah, just a sec," Scott grunts. His hand brushes up against Stiles' balls, moving them up and out of the way. Stiles barely has time to process that before Scott's guiding his cock into Allison.

"Oh, God," Allison cries. "Oh, wow."

The best Stiles can manage is a choked groan. It's so much more intense now. Scott shifts, and holy shit, Stiles can actually feel Scott on the other side of Allison, Scott's cock sliding against his own.

"You can move now, Stiles," Allison says faintly. "Please. Now."

Stiles doesn't hesitate. He pulls back, shuddering at the way she surrounds his cock, and thrusts back in. Scott is doing some kind of rolling thrust motion beneath them, but Stiles isn't paying much attention, more concerned with finding his own rhythm. Allison's grunting steadily, obviously getting into it, so Stiles slams back in.

Scott's cock pops out, whacking Stiles in the balls.

"Damn it!" Scott yelps.

"My fault," Stiles pants, holding himself back while he waits for Scott to get resituated. "Damn it, sorry."

"It's the position," Scott says. "I don't think it's going to work this way. You're too tall. You're going to push her off of me every time you go for it."

"Awesome, you've finally figured out geometry. But it's not gonna matter if you don't figure out something else quick," Stiles warns. God, Allison is a _furnace_.

"On our sides," Allison says, twisting into him. Stiles winds up pulling out by the time they've figured out where they're going, but getting back in goes more smoothly this time. Scott tugs them around, rearranging their legs until they're all three a threaded tangle of limbs, but somehow it works, Scott pushing inside Allison and making them all groan.

"You doing okay?" Scott whispers to Allison. They're all sort of rocking now, little thrusts that have Stiles tucking his face into Allison's hair and breathing harshly through his nose.

"Great," Allison whispers back, before her breath catches and then she lets out a high-pitched whimper. "But you can both go harder. I want you to."

Stiles is more than willing to make her happy, but it takes him a moment to figure out how. He draws his lower leg up, getting his knee braced so he can roll onto Allison a bit, letting her take some of his weight. Scott reaches up, setting his hand on Stiles' waist to help him balance, and that does it, they've found the perfect position.

"Oh, fuck," Allison groans as Stiles thrusts in hard. "God, just like that. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me."

"Jesus," Stiles swears. He drops his head, trying to ignore how good this feels, but it's hard. Her asshole is a tight ring around his cock, slipping up and down his length, and Scott's cock keeps rubbing against his own. "I'm not gonna last. Oh, God."

"Hang on," Scott says, digging his fingers into Stiles' hip hard enough the pain cools him down, keeping him from tipping over the edge. "She's close."

"So close," Allison moans. She doesn't say anything else. Stiles would, he really would, but his jaw is too tight, his teeth clenched as he fights the way his balls have drawn up. He keeps thrusting, moving in time with Scott as Allison's cries get higher and louder, telling himself he can do it, just a little bit longer—

" _Yessss_ ," Allison hisses, and if that isn't her coming then tough cookies, because Stiles is gone, man, with the whole eyes rolling back and pathetic whimpering noises coming out of his mouth as he blows like Moby Dick, and dude, that is probably the worst comparison he's ever come up with but he doesn't fucking _care_. Allison's asshole is actually fluttering around the base of his cock, pulling pulse after pulse out of him. He's vaguely aware of Scott still thrusting away, but it's cool, it's fine, Stiles is busy collapsing half on top of the bed, half on top of Allison's lovely, sweaty skin when Scott finally lets out a roar that doesn't quite take out his eardrums.

Stiles thinks he actually feels Scott's dick pulse as he comes, but that's probably his imagination. His imagination sprouting from his orgasm-scrambled brains.

"Oh, wow," Allison finally says. "That was...."

"Yeah," Scott says, and Stiles can hear the loopy-happy smile on his face. Stiles knows every expression Scott has, can pinpoint it by the sound of his voice or the line of his shoulders, and he is hearing one happy dude on the other side of Allison. "Stiles? You good?"

He swallows and smacks his lips. "So, so good. Except I think I'm still trying to reboot. It's possible that it's time to update the OS. What version are we up to now, anyway? Dragon? Mothman? Imp?"

Scott snorts, but Allison lets out a wheezy breath. "Hey Stiles?" she asks, and he already knows where she's going with that.

"Yeah, hang on." He gets a secure hold on the condom and then tries to pull out as carefully as possible. Allison doesn't tense up or yell out or anything, so he figures he does okay. He and Scott wind up in front of the bathroom trash can at the same time. Side-by-side disposal of their used condoms may be the weirdest bro-bonding experience they've ever shared, and that's counting the time when, shortly after Scott started working at the clinic, Deaton showed them both how to express a cat's anal glands.

(After that, Stiles pretty much stopped dropping by to bug Scott while he was working. Deaton is one sly dude.)

"Remind me to take the trash out before you go," Scott says as he pulls a washcloth out of the cabinet and wets it with warm water.

Stiles raises an eyebrow. "Doesn't your mom get suspicious of you taking the trash out all the time?"

Scott snorts. "She knows I have sex. She just doesn't want to catch me doing it." He wags his finger in Stiles' face. "And that includes used condoms lying around, young man!"

It's a terrible impression of Mrs. McCall, but that's what makes it funny. Stiles is still chuckling as he follows Scott back towards the bed. He watches Scott hand the washcloth over to Allison, and just like that he's acutely aware of where he is and what they've just done. Stiles puts his hands on his hips, but that just reminds him he's naked.

Naked, naked, naked.

"Um," he says.

Allison rolls so she's facing him, her eyes half-lidded as she smiles lazily. "Hey. Come back to bed?"

Scott does so immediately, but Stiles hesitates, unsure if the invitation was meant for him as well. He flails a hand in the direction of his jeans. "I guess maybe I should head home?"

Scott's brow wrinkles. "You're going to skip out on the afterglow?"

Stiles scoffs, even as his face flushes. "No?"

"Get over here, then," Scott says, and Allison holds up the corner of the sheet.

Stiles doesn't need a third invitation. He tucks himself around Allison, then gives into temptation and kisses the tip of her nose, her soft laugh chuffing against his chest while he leans over and does the same thing to Scott.

"Best friends ever," he says, and gets two matching grins in return.


	6. Erica & Boyd

Waiting on the stoop of the two-story brick as Boyd fits his key in the lock is not doing good things for getting Stiles into the mood. Boyd and Erica are cool; Stiles likes them a lot, now that he's had time to get to know them. Now that they've settled into their werewolvey selves. But standing here, between the oversized topiaries, all he can think of is the smirk on Erica's face right before she brought the Jeep's starter down on his head two years ago. 

Thankfully, Boyd gets the door open before Stiles can travel any farther down memory lane, and ushers him inside.

The breezeway is short and narrow, hardly enough room for the two of them to squeeze in next to one of those coat rack-bench combination things. (It's always seemed counterintuitive to Stiles. How do you sit down on the bench when it's full of coats? Where do you put the coats if you're sitting down on the bench?) There's a skinny table next to it, a huge silk flower arrangement in a delicate-looking vase displayed on top. Stiles edges around it as he follows behind Boyd, wary of the grasping fronds. It'd be just his luck to catch one of them on his jacket and smash the vase to pieces.

"Your parents out?" Stiles asks as Boyd leads him past slipcovered chairs and a polished upright piano, down a stretch of carpeted stairs and into a basement den.

"At a convention for the business," Boyd says with a shrug. "Nobody's gonna walk in on us."

"Good to know," Stiles says, and then Boyd opens the door at the far end of the den. His wide shoulders block everything beyond, so when he finally steps to the side it takes Stiles a moment to process what he's seeing.

"Hello, Stiles," Erica purrs. In his head, he'd always pictured her in a leather bustier, or maybe one of those slinky vinyl Catwoman catsuits, leather crop bouncing against her palm. Instead, she's in a rich midnight blue slip with delicate, ivory lace trim. Her makeup is lighter, more subtle than he's ever seen it, almost like she's had it professionally done.

"So quiet," she says, slinking forwards on her knees. The cups of the nightie thing do a fantastic job of pushing her breasts up and together. Stiles lets himself look, because this is her night and she's been trying to hypnotize him with her breasts for years. He's not about to let her down. "What's the matter, wolf got your tongue?"

"Not yet," Boyd says with a snort. He grabs onto Stiles' shoulder and tugs him towards the bed. "Think it's about time to change that."

"Hi," Stiles says, gathering himself enough to smile at her. "Happy birthday."

That expression about a wolf licking its chops? Yeah, that's exactly what Erica does. Stiles isn't sure whether to laugh, run in terror, or strip off all his clothes. 

"Mmm," she purrs. "So far I'm a big fan of my present."

"Yeah?" Stiles asks. He clears his throat, then tries to sound a little less timid and prey-like. "I mean, I don't want to disappoint you. Just let me know what you want, okay? They say communication is the key to satisfying sexy times, after all."

Erica sits back, heels tucked to the side of her rear, the whole hungry-wolf act vanishing in an instant. "You really mean that," she says. The look on her face reminds him of the time they'd worked on an English project together in ninth grade, how she'd smiled, so tentatively at first, after she'd suggested Neil Gaiman as a topic and Stiles totally geeked out at her over _The Sandman_.

"Yeah," he says, smiling back at her. "I really do."

"Thanks," she says quietly. Then her eyes light up, and she touches the tip of her tongue to her upper lip. "Communication, hmmm? You know, I think I want to start by unwrapping my present."

"That, I can do," Stiles says, starting to shrug out of his overshirt. "Granted, there have been the occasional undressing-related disasters in the past, but those were usually—"

"Stop."

Stiles shuts his mouth, his whole body stilling as he waits for Erica to make up her mind. She winks, then her gaze travels up, over Stiles' shoulder.

"I want Boyd to do it," she says, and oh, hey, Stiles has no problem with that. "Please, oh, please, my sweet sugar muffin?"

Boyd snorts. "Your wish is my command, my queen honeybee."

Erica's cheeks go tight, her lips puckering in as she holds in a laugh.

"Ooh, is this a thing?" Stiles asks. "Because if it is, you know I'd be good at it. I have a million and one—"

"Nope," Erica breaks in, the word popping out like the snap of bubble gum.

"Not unless you want to find out a million and one ways we have of shutting you up, Stilinski," Boyd rumbles in his ear, right before he starts tugging at Stiles' overshirt.

"Somehow that doesn't sound nearly as sexual as it should when you're doing that," Stiles says. The shirt's dangling from his wrists now, and Boyd curls one huge paw around Stiles' forearm, using the other hand to guide the cuff all the way off. "Also, since you're getting me naked, I'd really rather you call me Stiles."

Boyd pulls the other sleeve the rest of the way off, letting the shirt drop to the floor. "What's next for _Stiles_ , sugarlips?"

Stiles works on holding his snickers inside, because going by the way Boyd and Erica are playing it, part of the game is to react as little as possible to whatever horrible nickname comes out of their mouths. He hadn't expected this at all, the way they're clearly having fun together, incorporating their affectionate game into their sex. Or incorporating sex into their game, maybe. He's not really sure how these things work. Whatever, it's nice, and he feels a lot more relaxed than he did a few minutes ago.

"Shoes off, I think," Erica says, gaze flicking up and down his body. "Let's take care of all the practical stuff first before I get to the _prize_."

She's looking directly at his groin. Stiles blushes, blushes even more when Boyd drops to his knees to start in on his laces. Erica laughs a little, then snaps her teeth at him.

"Oh, dear God," Stiles mewls. It's a ridiculous reaction to a ridiculous gesture, but ever since that first time Derek did it to him, angry yet somehow playful after Stiles backed him down with a _my house, my rules_ line that was far from his best work, he hasn't been able to control the fear-want-need that surges through him in response whenever one of the wolves does it.

Boyd chuckles, tapping the back of Stiles' calf until Stiles lifts his foot. "Oh, yeah," Boyd says as he slips that shoe and sock off. "She is going to eat you up."

"And that should sound plenty sexual this time," Erica says as Boyd strips Stiles' other foot bare. "I am going to get my mouth all over you, Stiles. How does that sound?"

Stiles swallows. Boyd's on his feet again, behind Stiles as he slowly pulls Stiles' T-shirt upwards. "Good," Stiles rasps as the cloth drags against his skin. "Yeah, uh. I could go for that."

"I think I'm going to start with your nipples." Erica's gaze is glued to him, eyes following the slow reveal of his skin. Stiles has no idea what to even do with that, what she's saying, how she's watching him. "Or, no. I want to taste that patch of skin right over your belly button. Are you ticklish, Stiles?"

He shakes his head slowly, startling a little when Boyd finally pulls the shirt up and over his head. When he can see her again, she's staring at his waistline.

"Mmm, yeah," she says when Boyd's hands drop to his belt. "Come on, baby, don't tease me. I wanna see him."

And that's just.... Her eyes have darkened. She's biting at her lower lip, chest rising with shallow breaths as Boyd works the buckle of his belt. If Boyd hadn't made it clear to him that Erica was way over her crush, if Stiles hadn't seen for himself, repeatedly, the way she looks at Boyd, he'd be freaking out right now, wondering if maybe she wants something more from him than he can give.

 _Erica_ wants _him_. Sexually, not romantically. _Erica_ thinks he's hot as fuck.

"I don't understand this," he says faintly as Boyd's fingers work at his fly. "I do not understand my life at all."

Erica and Boyd both laugh. "Just enjoy the ride, man," Boyd says as he pushes Stiles' pants down his legs. "No point trying to think your way out of having fun."

That sounds like a philosophy worth living.

"Underwear too?" Boyd asks, and Stiles flushes all over again. His dick had been gun shy when this adventure started, intimidated by Erica and the whole situation, but it's over its anxiety now, coaxed to full hardness by Erica's words and Boyd's slow hands.

"Ugh, tough choice, but no," Erica says, and yeah, she's definitely staring at his hard cock, no question about it. "I wanna do that myself. Come here."

At first Stiles thinks she's talking to Boyd, but then she pats the bed beside her and raises an impatient eyebrow at him. He scrambles to do her bidding, deciding there's no way he can even aim for coolness, not when his cock is tenting his underwear so obscenely. She draws his head down before he's quite settled, and he tips forward into her, but Erica just lets out a pleased hum and kisses him, open-mouthed and hungry.

"I _knew_ you'd be good at that," she says once she finally lets him go. Stiles licks at the spit and lipgloss left behind, cross-eyed, maybe a bit dazed. Erica pats his cheek, then drags a thumb over his bottom lip. "Have you given a blowjob with that mouth?"

He shakes his head, face blazing.

"Hmmm. Have you ever _gotten_ a blowjob?"

He shakes his head again. "Only in my dreams," he says, and Erica laughs.

"Well, then," she says, leaning in to whisper in his ear. "Maybe a little bit later you can close your eyes and dream about me."

Stiles swallows. "You know what they say. No time like the present."

"Oh, but you don't want to miss out on the next order of business," she says, booping him on the nose with the tip of her finger. "Your scene might be done, Stiles, but the show's not over."

He follows her gaze to the end of the bed, where Boyd is standing, fingers hooked under the hem of his shirt. As soon as he sees that they're watching, he lifts his hands, performs the same smooth crossed-arm roll that Derek does whenever he takes his shirt off. Stiles wonders if Derek actually trains his betas on how to pull off stripper-cool, or if it's some kind of cellular knowledge that gets transmitted in the bite.

Boyd is...sleek, which isn't a word that Stiles has ever labeled him in the past, but it's true. Oh, he's well built, there's no doubt of that. His upper arms have the girth of a python capable of swallowing a goat, for God's sake. But he's not muscle-bound by any means, every flex and release a smooth, limber glide of tissue over bone, and his frame isn't bulky. Stiles wonders why he ever really thought of Boyd that way, and then, as Boyd's hands drop to his pants, decides that he'll leave the self-examination for later.

"Take 'em off, schnookums," Erica says, making a kissy noise. "Don't be shy. Nothing different than what goes on in the locker room, is it?"

"I think you've been reading too much porn again," Boyd says, but he unbuttons his pants and undoes his fly. He looks up, eyebrow arched, and adds, " _My little jammy toes_."

"Ugggggh," Erica groans, grabbing the pillow beside her and burying her face in it. Stiles wonders if she's pissed, or upset, or about to lose control of the shift, maybe, but when she lets finally drops the pillow her cheeks are tight, her face red, like she just smothered a laugh out of herself. "That was so out of line, butternuts. Drop 'em."

Boyd does.

Boyd has really long, really impressively muscled legs. Legs that could pop Stiles' head like a rotten melon.

Then again, considering werewolf strength, Erica's legs could do that, too.

"Very nice," Erica says. "But you're not finished."

"I don't know about that," Boyd says. "I'm not entirely sure my audience is appreciative enough for me to go on."

Erica elbows Stiles in the side. He yelps, clutching at his ribs.

"That's you," she hisses, like she somehow thinks Boyd's not going to hear her.

"Yeah, thanks, I figured that out." Stiles rolls his eyes. Erica sends him a narrow-eyed glare that he thinks is mostly playful, and he dares to stick his tongue out at her before he looks back at Boyd. "Dude. I am so appreciative, you have no idea."

"Yeah?" Boyd asks, and the question sounds like it's still a part of their game, playful and cocky, but Stiles wonders. This has to be a little weird for someone who's used to the averted-eyes rule of the locker room, Erica's porn fantasies notwithstanding, and isn't really interested in getting hot and heavy with another guy. Or maybe it doesn't matter to Boyd at all. Maybe he's getting off on doing Erica's bidding. Maybe he's getting off on the performance of it. Because when he pushes his boxer briefs to the floor and straightens again, his cock is at a good half-chub, nicely plump though not fully erect.

Stiles' mouth fills, and he wonders if he'll get to check off another square on his sexual technique bingo card tonight.

"Okay, show's over," Erica says, and then she's tugging at Stiles' arms, using her strength to easily shove him around, position him so that they're both stretched out on the bed, Erica half on top of him.

"Um," he says.

"Talking, no." She brushes her nose against his. "Kissing, yes."

"No talking will I do," he says, because he can't help himself, and there's a growl in the back of Erica's throat as she swoops in to take his lips, a rumbling burr that zings through his chest and tickles his mouth. He thinks he's laughing, a giddy sort of huff of air that escapes into her mouth and echoes back to him, but mostly he's just caught up in the way she's kissing him like she's starving for his taste. They go on like that for a while, frantic and needy, teeth knocking and digging into lips, until Erica flings her head back, eyes closed as she lets out a wailing moan.

Stiles looks down the length of their bodies, and oh, yeah, that nice little pressure grinding against his dick is the back of Boyd's hand, buried in Erica's panties as he works to get her off.

"There you go, baby," Boyd murmurs in Erica's ear. "I gotcha. Give it up for us."

Stiles grits his teeth as Erica's fingers dig into his shoulders, but her nails are human blunt, thank God, and the pain is a small thing, a bit of flavoring on top of the hotness that is seeing Erica come. 

"So beautiful," Stiles says when she opens her eyes, and she beams at him, eyes post-orgasm hazy but still bright and happy. Maybe it's selfish, but Stiles is going to take at least partial credit for that, for the way she lets out a blissful sigh and relaxes in his arms. She brushes a kiss over his lips, then turns her head and gets a deeper, hotter one from Boyd.

"Mmm, yeah," Erica says when she turns back to him. "I think it's time to take things up a notch. Remember when I said I wanted to get my mouth all over you?"

Stiles swallows. "I have a vague recollection of that fact."

"Oh, honey," she says, leaning up on one arm. "There's not going to be anything vague about it."

Then she leans in and bites his neck, his whole body going stiff with surprised pleasure. He burbles out some kind of nonsense noise she doesn't pay any attention to. Or maybe she does, Stiles has no clue. Doesn't have much of a clue about anything, now that she's moved down to his nipple, flicking at it with her tongue and then suckling.

"Never pegged you as being the hairy one of our bunch," she says as she tongues a line through his chest hair. "But I like it."

"That's, uh, yeah," he mangles out. Talking is pretty much a lost cause. Erica seems to be dedicated to her plan, swooping up to his neck to suck and nibble again, before she moves down to the cap of his shoulder to paint several strokes with her tongue. 

"Oh, fuck, yes, just like that," Erica says, and Stiles blinks up at the ceiling, trying to figure out why, exactly, the sensitive stretch of skin below his ribs is such a turn on for her, but then Erica rocks forward, nearly crashing down on top of him.

Oh, hey, that would explain it. Erica and Boyd have gotten to the fucking portion of this evening's programming.

Boyd has his head down, eyes closed, hands planted firmly on Erica's hips, his abs flexing magnificently with every slow thrust. Erica's still wearing her nightie, but the cups hang low, loose, giving Stiles a good view of her bouncing breasts. Every now and then he catches a flash of rosy pink nipple.

"I need you to scoot back," Erica says, each word breathy and jarred, punched out of her by Boyd. "Sit against the headboard."

"Yeah, definitely, scooting back now." It actually takes a little bit of maneuvering, since Erica is still mostly draped over him, but he gets there, arranging his bent legs in a vee so Erica can fit between.

"You know what the Big Bad Wolf says, right?" Erica bites lightly at his belly, then looks up at him under her eyelashes. "I'm gonna huff, and I'm gonna puff, and I'm gonna...."

"Oh, holy shit!" Stiles yelps, jackknifing forwards as she sucks his cock deep into her mouth. She presses a hand against his stomach, forcing him to relax back against the headboard, but honestly he doesn't care about anything right now except how she's sliding her mouth up and down his dick. He's always known a blowjob would feel fantastic, but it's so much more than he imagined, different than sinking his cock into a vagina or ass, but God, so good.

Intimate, too, in a way that surprises him.

Erica pulls off with a pop, peering up at him as she uses her hand to drag the head of his cock against her wet lower lip. "Good?"

Stiles nods. "So good. Incredible. God, Erica, _you're_ incredible."

"Just the words I wanted to hear," she says, right before she goes back down on him. Stiles smacks the back of his head against the headboard, but he doesn't feel it. He's starting to get the hang of the sensations, or at least enough that he's not in danger of passing out from forgetting to breathe, but he knows there's no way he's going to be able to hold out against her mouth for long.

"Is it good, turtledove?" Boyd pants out. Stiles rolls his head back, catching the little smirk Boyd sends his way. "He everything you wanted?"

Stiles lets out a whimper when she pulls off again. "He's delicious," she says, resting her head against Stiles' chest as she lets out a series of drawn-out moans. "Almost as tasty as you, love monkey."

"Don't deprive yourself," Stiles says, waving his hand in front of her face. "Delicious tastiness, right down here. Where you were, just a second ago."

Erica shakes her head, fingers digging into him again, and oh, okay, apparently Boyd is really good at the sex thing, because she's crying out, just like she did the first time she came. Boyd slows down, like maybe he's going to pull out, but Erica shakes her head.

"Go on," she gasps. "Stiles can wait."

"Oh, I see how it is," Stiles says, but he doesn't actually mind, not when it means he gets to focus on the lines of sweat outlining Boyd's abs, on the way his lips rouge cherry-red as he breathes open-mouthed, the little, almost silent grunts of pleasure he's making. For all the porn Stiles has watched, this is the first truly voyeuristic thing he's done, and he's been invited here, into this moment, for their mutual pleasure.

His own dick jerks when Boyd throws back his head and comes.

"Fuck," Boyd says, sagging against Erica's back. She doesn't even flinch at his weight. "Erica, damn."

"Hang on, buttercup," she says, smiling up at Stiles. "I'm about to get busy with Stiles. I think he wants to come in my mouth."

"Oh, Jesus. Yes, please," Stiles whimpers, trying to keep his hips still as Erica finally goes back down on him. She's not playing around this time, head bobbing quickly, setting a rhythm that has his balls drawing up and his muscles starting to shudder. He's not sure why he does it, or even how he actually manages it, but he opens his mouth and lets the words spill out right as the first pulse of his orgasm hits. "Fuck, yeah, precious moon dumpling!"

It costs him Erica's mouth. She makes a choked noise and then pulls off, laughing and gasping, all while Boyd brays hysterically behind her. Stiles grabs his dick and finishes himself off, come spattering all over his chest, his hands, Erica's cheek as he laughs and chokes and marvels at his own brain.

"You little fucker," Erica says, but she's still laughing as she draws him down with her and Boyd, pulling him into their warm, amused nest in the middle of the bed.

He's pretty sure he just won _all_ the points.


	7. The Proposition, Part 2 - Derek

When Stiles drags himself through his front door Friday after school, Derek's in his kitchen, lazily slumped against the counter as he digs handfuls of Raisin Bran out of the box and stuffs them into his mouth.

"That's disgusting," Stiles bitches, right before he tips himself face down over the arm of the couch. He gets a faceful of age-soft afghan in reward, and he noses around in it blissfully before turning his head to the side, just enough that he can breathe. Laid out like this, with his shins draped over the armrest, does a nice job of stretching out the overworked muscles in his groin, even giving his quads some relief. Of course, his ass is still one big knot, especially deep in his glutes, and he has a growing suspicion that he's going to have to put in some serious floor time on super contortiony stretches if he ever wants to walk comfortably again.

Who knew sex would be harder on his body than a week of Finstock punishing them with suicides?

"You're out of milk," Derek says. It sounds like he puts extra effort into making his crunching as loud as possible after that statement, as if said lack of milk has forced him into a vicious, fang-filled attack on all the cereal in Stiles' house.

"You know, there are days I really regret telling my dad about everything," Stiles says. He caterpillars himself up the length of the couch until most of his body is spread out over the cushions. "Mostly the days when you actually take him up on the whole mi casa es su casa thing."

"What's wrong with you?" Derek asks. Stiles doesn't hear him move, but the sound of crunching gets closer. "Dick finally chafing?"

"Only the one raiding my kitchen," Stiles mutters, and Derek snorts. Stiles levers himself over onto his side. Derek's standing between the couch and the coffee table, peering down at Stiles with one very judgemental eyebrow raised. The box of Raisin Bran is nowhere in sight, but Stiles swears he can smell the iron-sweet scent of raisins wafting from him. Stiles sighs. "I take it you know about everything."

"If by 'everything' you mean sleeping with my whole pack this week, then yeah."

"Danny's not pack," is the first thing that comes out of his mouth. Stiles groans and drops his head back down to the couch. "God. I don't know why they didn't just make an announcement on Facebook. I'd hate the one or two people in the world who haven't heard about my sex life to feel left out."

Derek's knee pops as he sits down on the coffee table, which is weird, since Stiles didn't realize werewolf bodies made those kind of noises, or at least not when they weren't being spindled and mutilated with a little outside help. 

"You think they're out there bragging to the world about your exploits or something?"

"No," Stiles says glumly. Sullenly. He doesn't know why he's in such a funk today. Last night had been a hell of a lot of fun, Erica and Boyd nowhere near the intimidating sex fiends he'd been imagining all week, but today, for some reason, he's just felt...off. "I don't know. I guess there's part of me that's waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like this was some big _She's All That_ bet, and I was stupid enough to fall for it, every time."

The coffee table creaks, protesting Derek's heavy ass as he shifts around. He's probably leaning forward now, giving Stiles one of his tight-lipped glares, but Stiles keeps his head turned away. 

"If it was, they're fucking stupid."

Stiles snorts. "That was almost a compliment, I think. So now do I get the 'first time should have been with someone you love' speech?"

Derek sighs. "Believe me, those are words you'd never hear out of my mouth."

"What, not even a 'sex should be with someone you care about'?" Stiles rolls onto his side, but no, Derek isn't glaring at all. He looks puzzled, more than anything, like he can't possibly fathom Stiles' sex-related ennui. "Come on, man. I feel like you're not even trying, here. You've got to at least pull out the authoritarian eyebrows."

Derek rolls his eyes. "I'm so glad at least something about me is authoritarian, since nobody ever seems to listen to what I say."

Stiles snorts, because it's sadly true, and also Derek's own damn fault for creating a pack out of some of the most stubborn people in all of California. Not to mention that whole grrr-arry beginning to his reign as alpha, when they all learned to roll their eyes and come up with better alternatives to his half-baked plans. 

"It's the damn bunny teeth," he says instead as he sits up, because he's not actually cruel enough to point out Derek's previous flaws when he's worked so hard to overcome them. "They undermine your every word."

"I'll show you teeth, you little shit," Derek says, flashing his fangs. Then he knocks his knee against Stiles' where it sticks out over the edge of the couch. "Why would I lecture you on that anyway? I assume you care about all of them, since they're your friends."

Stiles sighs. "Yeah. Of course they are."

Derek frowns. "You don't sound very enthused for somebody who just spent the last week having sex. Do you really think they're out there laughing at you? Even if you don't trust the others, I can't believe you'd think Scott would ever do that to you."

"No, I know. And I do trust everybody, really." Stiles breathes in, but his chest feels tight, like he can't fit all the air he needs inside. He tries again, and that's when all the self-doubt comes bubbling up and out. "It's just that I don't get it, okay? For eighteen years, nothing. I was Stiles Stilinski, the goof everyone knew was going to end up the forty-year-old virgin. And then suddenly my friends all think I'm hot? So much so that they're lining up to fuck me? It just doesn't make sense."

Derek smiles. It's a quick thing, a bare lift of his lips before he forces it back down again and resumes his normal resting murder-face, but Stiles totally saw it. He's not sure whether to feel offended or amused, so he just goes with thrusting his hands out in front of him in a _please, do explain_ sign of his impatience.

"I think Boyd popped the cork," Derek says. Stiles takes it as a sexual metaphor at first. He opens his mouth, ready to explain that no, actually, Danny was the first one to get there, but Derek rolls his eyes like he can read the thought printed on Stiles' face. "I meant they've found you attractive for a while. Believe me, you have to work really hard to hide that kind of thing from a werewolf. Boyd and Erica were just the first ones to act on it."

"And everyone else just piled on the sex train," Stiles says slowly. He shakes his head. "Okay, that's...I don't know what. Cool, I guess. Wow."

"But?"

"No, it's all good." Stiles sighs. He rubs at the spot on his cheek where he can feel a shallow imprint from where he was lying on the afghan, then shrugs. "I don't know. It was amazing. Everybody was amazing. I guess I'm just having a little letdown? Something."

Derek stares at him long enough that Stiles feels his face start to heat. "What?" Stiles asks, a bit defensively. "Should I be flailing around, screaming my gratitude to the heavens or something?"

"That's not what I—" Derek huffs. "Look. I was just wondering how much of what you did was because you wanted to, and how much was because you were just going along with what they wanted."

"Uh." Stiles holds up both hands. "One hundred percent above board and consensual for all parties involved, I swear."

"It better have been," Derek says, a touch of a growl in his throat. "But that wasn't what I was asking."

"Okay, and?"

Derek stares down at his hands for a long moment, brow furrowed like it does sometimes when he's searching for words. "Sometimes, especially when you're new to sex, it's easy to get caught up in what the other person—" His lips quirk. "—Or _persons_ want, and just follow along with their lead. Did you ever get a chance to find out what _you_ like?"

Stiles opens his mouth to say of course he did; he had sex, multiples times, complete with orgasms—but. _But._ Danny showed him how to give a handjob. Lydia had a very clear plan on how to make sure he knew his way around a woman's body. He'd found out a hell of a lot about his kink for being bitten from Isaac, but that had been an accident, really, and it wasn't like Stiles had gotten a chance to return the favor, in any way, shape, or form. Allison had her ideal threesome planned out long before Stiles ever stepped into the room, and of course everything with Erica and Boyd was all about making her fantasies come true.

"I loved all of it," Stiles says firmly.

Derek nods. "I bet it was the most amazing introduction to sex ever. Doesn't mean you've learned everything, might as well pack it in and become a monk."

"God, I hope not." Now that he thinks about it, there's a lot of stuff he never got to try. Not necessarily specific positions or anything—although he wouldn't mind figuring out if some of the stuff he's seen in porn is as ridiculous and body-breaking as it looks, or if there are actually benefits to the reverse-squat knee-bend fuck—but more along the lines of being able to take his time to touch wherever he wants, even if it's just the back of a calf.

He groans as reality sinks in. "God, I completely blew my shot, didn't I? Opportunity must have wore out her knuckles this past week, as much as she rapped on my door."

Derek snorts. "I'm sure she did."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, when we both know I'm never going to get laid again."

"Whatever." Derek rolls his eyes. "I'm pretty sure you're not going to be hard up for long."

Stiles wants to roll his eyes back at him, play it off as a platitude, but Derek doesn't do optimistic. The way he's looking at Stiles right now is oddly serious, like it's important to him that his words sink in. "Yeah, okay," Stiles finally says, which seems to be good enough because Derek finally looks away.

"I should go," he says, standing up fast and smooth, no popping in his joints this time. He pulls his car keys out, then just sort of stands there. Like he's waiting for something from Stiles.

"You owe me milk," Stiles says, just to break the silence.

Derek frowns at him. "I didn't drink your milk. You did."

"Okay, fine. You owe me Raisin Bran."

"You never eat it, anyway. It was stale as hell." Derek shakes his head. "Look. Call me if you need anything."

"I just said—"

"I'm not doing your grocery shopping, Stiles." Derek's gaze darts away from him, making him look shifty. 

No, not shifty. Anxious. Stiles knows that look, the slightly despairing openness around his eyes, the way his eyebrows aren't exactly flat, but are neither up nor down, like they can't figure out what they're supposed to be doing. He's never seen that look when the shit isn't about to hit the fan, which is probably why his heart is beginning to speed and why nervous sweat is starting to prickle up on his skin. 

"Or any other errand you come up with," Derek adds belatedly.

"Those are a hell of a lot of conditions to place on 'anything'," Stiles says, not because he's trying to be an ass, but because sometimes Derek needs that extra little push to get him to bark back, to spill what he's actually thinking.

Derek blows out a breath. "Call me if you _want_ anything. Not...stuff."

"That makes it all so much clearer, thank you," he snarks, but Stiles is far from stupid. He can catch a clue with the best of 'em, although, _dude_. He'd thought he'd already reached the apex of _awesome shit that never, ever happens to Stiles in real life_. 

He swallows, then shuffles a little bit closer to Derek, forcing him to meet Stiles' gaze. "So, hypothetical question here," he says, swallowing again because he'd forgotten how intense it is to stare into Derek's eyes. "Say I were to call you up tomorrow and ask for 'anything', that 'anything' could include...?"

Derek brings his hand up, cupping his hand under the angle of Stiles' jaw. Stiles knows it's coming, his heart beating so loudly now that it's probably deafening to werewolf ears, but even so, the brush of Derek's lips across his own is so quick, so soft, so fucking _gentlemanly_ , that the kiss is over and done with before he can respond.

"Anything," Derek whispers against his cheek. "Think about what you want for _you_."

Then he's pulling back, smiling tightly at Stiles, turning around and walking out the door.

* * *

Stiles thinks about 'anything'.

Oh, he thinks about it, all right. It's like he can't _not_ think about it. Every time he tries to distract himself, by trying to focus on homework or by flinging himself into Call of Duty or even by getting himself lost link-hopping in Wikipedia, his thoughts come right back around to what Derek said. He even wakes up in the middle of the night a few times, questions screaming through his brain so loudly he can't stay asleep.

He thinks about the way Danny told him exactly what to do. The way Lydia ordered him around, how Isaac took the lead, how he was the missing piece in Scott and Allison's fantasy, how Boyd and Erica had everything planned out. There's no doubt in his mind that he enjoyed it all, but...he was kind of passive in everything that happened to him.

Subby, maybe?

Stiles isn't sure. He's got no problem with the idea, but he's not entirely sure if it fits. Everybody he was with was way more experienced than he was, and it was nice to have somebody showing him the ropes. (But not _actual_ ropes...which, yeah, that might be something to explore later.) He definitely got off on the whip-crack of Lydia's voice as she told him what to do, but he thinks that might be more because that's who Lydia is, rather than because of any particular kink of his.

He tries imagining it the other way around, Lydia kneeling, waiting for his command. It doesn't really do it for him. Oh, he could see her getting off on subbing for somebody, maybe, if she ever decided to hand over her control, but it'd have to be with someone she really trusted. Someone she loved. And she and Stiles are never going to be in that place.

Stiles is a lot more okay with that than he ever thought he'd be.

Taking control, though. He does it with Scott all the time, though not in a sexual way. He thinks Allison would play along for as long as it suited her, and yeah, he could go there without breaking his brain. Isaac might have fun with it. Nothing he's thought of so far really does it for him, though, until he tries to fit Derek into that role in his head.

Derek, stretched out long underneath him, wrists cuffed by Stiles' grip, eyes smouldering up at him. Daring Stiles to do his worst.

_Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick._

Yeah, he could do that. Order Derek around, hold him down knowing that it's Stiles' will keeping those werewolf muscles in place. It'd be completely different than those times in the past when Derek pushed him around, backed him up into a wall and held him there with his body, so close that their breath mingled and all Derek had to do was lean in and take, and oh, God, he likes the thought of that, too.

Maybe he's a switch. Or maybe he doesn't have any particular affinity for D/s, and just likes sex however it comes? 

Stiles tables that question, and moves on. What else is out there? S&M, maybe? He definitely likes being bitten. Biting someone is pretty great, too, but that goes along with his oral fixation: biting, licking, sucking, it's all good, except damn it, how has he gotten this far without ever getting a cock into his mouth?

So. Oral fixation yes, sadistic urges, hmm, not really feeling any. Although if he wanted to bruise Derek, Derek would have to choose to let him. Choose to not let it heal, so that he'd carry Stiles' mark around on his perfect skin....

God. Honestly, Stiles has no idea what he wants, other than to try everything he can possibly think of and see what he likes. He's definitely got one thing on his to-do list. And while he's pretty sure Derek won't mind if Stiles tells him _I want to suck you off_ , it seems like a waste of an opportunity to leave it at just that. It shouldn't be this hard to narrow it down to specific requests.

By the time he wakes up on Saturday morning, things are starting to coalesce. He's definitely going to ask to give Derek a blowjob, but he thinks he was getting too caught up in defining his kinks last night. There's a bigger picture here.

He spares about thirty seconds to trying to play it cool, some vague goal of waiting until after breakfast in mind, but then he thinks 'fuck it.' It's not like Derek didn't know who Stiles was when he made the offer.

_So, hey. When you told me to think about what I want, were there any limitations on that for you?_

Stiles frowns at the text after he sends it. He probably could have put it more clearly, somehow. More confidently. He could have found his balls and led with exactly what he has in mind, instead of tiptoeing around the subject like he's ashamed.

Never mind the heat creeping into his cheeks.

His phone buzzes with a response far sooner than he expected. _Humiliation is off the table. Giving and receiving both._

Stiles blinks.

"Dude," he mouths, because suddenly he feels in over his head. He's watched so much porn and read so many blogs he feels like he should be an expert in all the kinks out there, but, thinking about it, he's gotten into a habit of skipping over the stuff that's not on his 'A+, would wank to again' list. The definition of humiliation _seems_ obvious, but he's not sure if what Derek means by it lines up with the carefully scripted scenes playing out behind Stiles' eyes.

_Okay, like,_ he starts to type out, but then he pauses. If humiliation is a big no-no for Derek, Stiles doesn't exactly want to bombard him with examples that turn him off. Or worse, freak him out.

He finally just sticks a question mark on the end and hits send.

_Don't call me a dirty, nasty boy, or a filthy whore, or a little cockslut. Don't make fun of me when I get into it. Other than that, we're good._

Stiles stares at the text, breathing harshly through his nose. He's not sure how he feels. Those aren't words that come naturally to him, he doesn't think, but he's glad Derek spelled it out, glad that Stiles didn't have the chance to accidentally screw things up while he was trying out something new.

His phone buzzes again. _Stiles? Is that what you wanted to do?_

_No!_ he sends back right away. Then, a calmer, _No. I was just thinking. What I wanted to ask for sounds ridiculous now._

_I doubt it,_ Derek sends back immediately. _Tell me anyway._

His palms are sweating. Derek's not even in the same part of town as he is, and Stiles' heart is thudding, his mouth dry, as badly as if Derek had him pressed up against his bedroom door. He licks at his lips, swipes his palms over his jeans, then types in his response, staring at the keyboard under his thumbs rather than the words taking shape on the screen.

_I want time. Like, a whole day. Or night. I want to be able to just play around, see what's good._

He had a little bit of that with Lydia, touching and fucking until they were worn out, but the whole experience was way too much like a really perverted day at school to be the easygoing exploration Stiles longs for. Well, not completely easygoing. If he closes his eyes he can still make his body echo with the jolt he felt when Allison launched herself at him on Tuesday, electricity crackling between them after twenty-four hours of waiting. 

_I want to build up to the sex. Draw it out until we can't keep our hands off of each other._

Stiles blushes again. Maybe he shouldn't have sent the last sentence. It sounds too romance-novel eager, all heaving chests and ruby lips, longing gazes meeting across the room before their bodies finally crash into each other with the force of the ocean's waves.

_I'm good with that. Can you stay over tonight?_

"Holy shit," Stiles breathes out in a rush. Somehow, despite their earlier negotiation, despite Derek's invitation yesterday, despite that soft, luscious kiss, he hadn't believed this would happen.

So, par for the course this week, really.

_Yeah,_ he sends. _I'll tell my dad I'm staying with Scott. What time should I come over?_

_Anytime this afternoon. We can watch a couple movies, eat, do whatever else comes up._

Stiles swallows. He can picture the smirk on Derek's face. No, the shit-eating grin, the one Derek gets whenever he's holding a straight flush. Well, joke's on him, because Stiles can't see how this situation is anything but a win-win.


	8. Derek

Derek opens the door to the loft after Stiles' fist lands for the second time. Not too quickly, but not tardy, either. Like he was listening for Stiles' arrival, waiting attentively, but didn't want to spook him by just jerking the door open as soon as he stepped in front of it. (Which is something Stiles has totally had done to him. More than once, by more than one werewolf. Having superhuman senses apparently comes with a license to be an ass.)

"Hey," Derek says.

Stiles has to lick his lips twice before he can manage a simple smile and a voice-cracking, _hey,_ in return.

Derek smiles back at him, though it looks a little unnatural, like a puppeteer's strings jerking at the corners of his mouth before suddenly releasing again. "Come on, get in here."

Stiles snorts, stepping to the side as he waits for Derek to shut the door, hands stuffed into his back pockets. He'd thought about trying to dress to impress, but the idea of sitting through the entire length of a movie in his tightest jeans, probably with an erection for at least half the time, was just a big fat 'no.' So he's wearing what he usually wears, comfy pants, fun shirt, soft hoodie to chase away the chill, and hoping Derek doesn't suddenly realize he's the same tremendous dork he's always been.

"You want something to drink?"

Stiles blinks, because while Derek isn't nearly the grump wolf he used to be, he doesn't usually play polite host whenever the pack is at his loft. As in never. But he's just standing there, next to Stiles, patiently awaiting Stiles' request like he's some waiter at an upscale restaurant. All _call me Josh_ and squatting down next to the table to look everyone in the eye, and okay, Stiles should probably rein it in, right now.

"Water," he says, or croaks, really, sounding like he needs his thirst quenched as badly as a man lost in the Mojave. He clears his throat. "I mean, yeah, um. Water, please? If it's not too much trouble."

Derek smiles like he means it this time. "I'll go see if I can manage to prime the pump," he says dryly, and Stiles chokes out a laugh. Derek doesn't move away immediately, though. Instead, he brings his hand up, slowly like he did yesterday afternoon, and draws Stiles' face to his.

He'd thought he'd be ready for the kiss this time. But no, Derek has to change things up, first nipping Stiles' bottom lip between his teeth, then pressing in, coaxing his mouth open until he feels a quick brush of Derek's tongue against his own. Stiles tries to press in deeper, wanting more, but Derek pulls back, leaving Stiles striving against the air.

"Sorry," Derek says. He rubs his thumb over Stiles' lips, then drops his hand and steps back. "Getting ahead of things. You wanna pick out a movie while I get your water?"

"A big part of me would rather strip off all my clothes and have you do me right here and now, but I did ask for slow, so." He jerks a thumb in the direction of the entertainment center. "Movie it is."

Derek blinks at him, slow and a bit glassy-eyed. Stiles grins at him, happily smug. He wasn't the one who just dove right in with open-mouthed kisses, after all. Serves Derek right to have to suffer a little payback.

"Water," Derek rasps, and then he takes off to the kitchen like there's a hunter on his tail.

Stiles shoves his hand down his pants and readjusts his cock into a more comfortable position. _That_ certainly didn't take long at all. He glances down at himself, but it's not like Derek isn't going to know how turned on he is, anyway, so he gives it up as a lost cause and wanders over to the collection of BluRays and DVDs stacked around the TV. He has no idea how many of them are actually Derek's, but he wouldn't be surprised if most of them belonged to various members of the pack instead. Stuff tends to accumulate here, even now that Derek lives mostly by himself.

"You have a preference?" he asks, not bothering to raise his voice. "I'm thinking some flavor of superhero, but I'm not picky."

Derek snorts from right beside him, startling Stiles into dropping the Avengers movie he'd picked up. Not that it's in danger of hitting the floor; Derek snags it out of the air, shoves the glass of water into Stiles' hand, and reshelves the BluRay, all before Stiles can do more than let out an offended squawk.

"You suck," Stiles says.

"Sure, if you ask nicely," Derek says, winking, and Stiles goes bright red. Holy shit, how did that possibility not enter his head before now? Derek's got a beautiful mouth, wide with soft lips that would look so good around his cock. And oh, man, all that stubble. Would it be too scratchy? Or soft? Maybe Derek would rub his cheeks all over Stiles' inner thighs before he moved up....

"Stiles."

"Yes?"

Derek grins. The whole pearly-white show. "Movie? You were just telling me you aren't picky, which is such a lie I don't need to be a werewolf to hear it."

Stiles huffs. "Okay, fine, I might be picky, but you know I don't care what we end up watching."

"Yes, and if it's something you don't like, you'll MST3K your way through the whole thing. No thanks." He reaches past Stiles, arm brushing against Stiles' chest, and snags the first Iron Man. "How about this? I haven't actually seen it yet."

"Are you serious?" Stiles grabs it away from him and scurries over to the player. "That's sacrilege, man. We definitely have to get you up to speed."

"I think I've picked up all the major plot points," Derek says as he sits down on the couch. "Pretty sure it was that last Avengers marathon that did it. Possibly the one before it. Or the one before that."

"And yet, given all that opportunity, you've somehow never seen the foundation piece." Stiles snags the remote, then turns towards the couch. Where Derek is sitting sort of in the middle, arm stretched over the back of the couch. "Um."

"Those marathons take _days_ Stiles. Don't get snooty at me for missing one movie." He raises an eyebrow, gaze flicking up and down Stiles' body. "What? Do you want me to move? Because I will, but you're gonna end up with my feet in your lap."

"Uh." Derek undoubtedly means for a foot rub, or even just to annoy Stiles, but his brain has been permanently tuned to sex, okay? He can't help it. "Are footjobs really a thing people do? I thought that was pretty much a fetish-only event. Which I'm okay with, really! Whatever floats your boat, it's all good."

Derek closes his eyes. "Sit down, Stiles. Please."

Stiles sits down. Next to Derek, a handswidth of safety space between their thighs. Of course, they both have broad shoulders, which Stiles didn't really think about before he parked his butt. His left shoulder winds up pressed into Derek's ribcage, into the slot opened up because Derek has slung his arm across the back of the couch, and that just can't be comfortable for him at all. Stiles wriggles, trying to make sure he's not jabbing bone into bone, but before he's quite satisfied, Derek drops his arm. It's heavy across his shoulders, but not in a bad way at all. Kind of nice, actually. Soothingly warm. 

Derek curls his hand, drawing Stiles closer to his chest, and just like that, they fit.

"Relax," Derek says softly. "Start the movie."

"Yeah, okay." Stiles tears his gaze away from the soft brush of Derek's eyelashes over his cheeks and starts the movie.

They watch for a while in silence. Stiles doesn't really see anything that's happening on the screen. He's seen it a thousand times, and even Robert Downey, Jr., doesn't have a chance in hell at holding his attention when Stiles is _cuddled up to Derek Hale, oh my fucking God_.

The thing is. Okay. The thing is, Stiles might have a little bit of a _thing_ for Derek. Not a big thing; after Stiles let go of his obsession with Lydia, he was pretty careful about not letting himself get that fixated on any one person again. But he has eyes, damn it, and Derek is one prime example of manflesh. (Werewolf flesh. Whatever.) More than that, Stiles has a well-honed appreciation for people on the snarky, occasionally cruel end of the spectrum, especially if that snark masks a well-hidden gooey center. (See aforementioned fixation RE: Lydia Martin.)

So yes, he has a thing for Derek, and being snuggled into his side, close enough that Stiles can smell the light musk of his aftershave and the faded fabric softener lingering on his shirt, isn't helping Stiles keep that thing under as tight of control as he should.

He'll deal.

After a while, his thoughts quit zigging and zagging quite so much, his muscles relaxing under the influence of Derek's warm body, and he gets pulled back into the movie. It's on the cave sequence now, Stiles' favorite part, and he can't help wondering what Derek thinks of this bit, about how Tony Stark has been laid low and is now almost literally rebuilding himself. Maybe the comparison is too on the nose, and Derek's simply appreciating a good story, one that involves some very satisfying ass-kicking at the moment.

"Something wrong?" Derek asks as Tony picks his way across the desert, awaiting rescue. His nose brushes against Stiles' cheek, sending a shiver up Stiles' spine, down his upper arms, hair rising lightly in response. "Are you hungry?"

Stiles shakes his head. "No, I'm good. Just, uh, thinking about the movie."

"Mmm," Derek rumbles, apparently satisfied with that answer. He rubs his nose against Stiles' cheek again, obviously deliberate this time, brushes his lips over the edge of Stiles' jaw, and then he turns back to the TV.

The thought starts as a niggle, a tiny seed, but Stiles has just barely reached down to coax it towards the light when it explodes outward, _holy shit, I'm on a date!_ Big-Banging itself through his brain. He's on a date with Derek, and it's not even a 'first date' date. Stiles has had a few of those: the disastrous Winter Formal date with Lydia; the time Danny convinced him to hang out together at the Jungle in order to make yet another ex- jealous; the fourth of July picnic date with Deputy Norris's daughter, Carrie Ann, who started coming up with names for her future kids five minutes after the fireworks display started. (She'd made it very clear they wouldn't be _his_ , thank you very much, and he'd spent the rest of the evening waffling between insulted and relieved.)

Yes, okay, Stiles has never had a _good_ first date. But he's had them, and he knows they're simple things, dances or picnics or a group hang at the pizza place. What Derek's doing for him is second date territory at the very earliest: private, cozy, with the promise of _more_ —and the thing is, it's exactly what Stiles asked him for.

God, he's such a dumbass sometimes.

"You're tensing up again," Derek says. He leans away this time, far enough so that when Stiles turns his head, their faces don't meet. This isn't necessarily a good thing, in Stiles' opinion. "Is this not what you wanted?"

He shakes his head. "I, uh, was just thinking about how this is exactly what I want. But are you sure it's okay with you? I mean, if you're bored, we can do something else. Something more exciting."

"Later," Derek murmurs. He dips his head, and oh, man, Stiles is pretty sure the term for that is nuzzling. Derek is nuzzling his neck, sending all kinds of shocks and chills down his body. Stiles tips his head back instinctively, dick throbbing as he's suddenly hit by the sense-premonition of Derek sinking his human teeth into his skin.

"Fuck." Derek pulls back, taking his wonderful mouth way too far away. He rubs his hand over his face, then shakes his head. He's smiling a little. " _Later._ I want to watch the movie with you right now."

"Yeah," Stiles says. He sounds hoarse. "Movie. Right."

Derek snorts. He leans in again, dropping a kiss on Stiles' lips, then settles back in on the couch, tugging Stiles into place beside him.

They watch the movie.

"I liked the first half better than the second," Derek says as the credits start to roll. "But it was pretty good overall. Do you want to watch the next one? Or, I know it's early, but we could go ahead and order food if you want."

Stiles is done. Stick a fork in him, one hundred percent done. He _knows_ he was the one who asked to go slow, but it's been well established by example after example that Stiles doesn't always think things through. The thought of sitting through another movie, cuddled up to Derek, the occasional bit of nuzzling thrown in, is absolutely unbearable.

"Stiles?"

He twists his body, rising off the seat just enough that he can swing his leg up and over Derek's thighs before he drops back down, ass perched on Derek's lap. It's probably the smoothest maneuver he's ever pulled off, surprising not just himself, but Derek as well, who's staring up at him with his mouth open.

Never say that Stiles is unwilling to take advantage of an opportunity when he sees one.

Derek's shock doesn't last past the first touch of Stiles' mouth. He clamps his hands down on Stiles' ass, hauling him in closer, and surges into the kiss, mouth wide and hungry. One of them moans; probably Derek, since Stiles is busy letting out a constant litany of whimpers.

"Oh, my God," Stiles gets out at some point while Derek is sliding his mouth along Stiles' jaw. "I think I might die if it gets any better than this."

"Hmm. Guess we should stop, then," Derek says, right before he tugs at Stiles' ear lobe. With his teeth.

"Don't even think about it, or I'll have to threaten you with something far more threatening than I can think of at the moment, and oh, my God, do that again."

Derek does, tangling his fingers deep in Stiles' hair and tugging his head back, leaving his throat naked and exposed, vulnerable to the slow drag of Derek's teeth over his skin.

"Fuck." Stiles blinks; for a moment he thinks his vision has blacked out, but nope, he's just lust stupid and staring straight up at the shadowed ceiling of the loft. He pulls away from Derek's grip, and Derek lets him go, licking his lips like he's _savouring_ the traces of Stiles-flavor left behind.

"Is that a kink for you?" Stiles asks. He reaches out, meaning just to run the tip of his index finger across Derek's lips, but that turns into one hand cupping Derek's cheek, then before he knows it, he's petting Derek's face with both hands. Or, not really petting, even though touching that beard is just as awesome as Stiles has always imagined. More like every one of his fingertips has a place it wants to explore, and Stiles doesn't have enough control right now to direct them in a more organized manner.

"Is what a kink for me?" Derek asks. He doesn't seem to mind the petting at all, letting his head drop back against the couch, passively accepting whatever Stiles does to him.

"Biting," Stiles says. He smooths his thumbs over Derek's eyebrows, because they're such a ferocious adversary in his mind, big and vocal in their opposition to any number of Stiles' plans in the past, and it amuses him to find them soft and quiescent under his touch. "Do you get off on biting? Like, sexual biting, I mean. Not species transformation biting. Because that is so not on the table, today or any other day in the future."

Derek rolls his eyes. Stiles chuckles, entertained by the way Derek's facial muscles move under his fingertips. "I'm not going to turn you while we're making out, Stiles. You do get that, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I was just babbling, mostly." Derek has a small bald spot in his left eyebrow, right near the edge, and for some reason Stiles is absolutely compelled to lean forward and touch the tip of his tongue to that singular spot of imperfection.

"Did you just lick my face?"

"No!" Stiles leans back, a little freaked out by Derek's tone, but Derek's smirking up at him, not looking pissed at all. "No, because you see, licking implies motion. A stroking movement of the involved appendage. Whereas I merely touched your face."

"You merely touched my face. With your tongue."

"Uh. Yes, with my tongue."

Stiles knows he's in trouble before Derek shifts his hand to the back of Stiles' neck. He's not stupid enough to fight what's coming, even though he knows Derek would let go the instant he did. That doesn't stop him from shrieking like a three-year-old caught in a tickle fight, letting it rip before Derek even gets his mouth open. And God, it's worse than being tickled, giggles and gasps fighting for dominance as Derek strokes the flat of his tongue under Stiles' jaw, up his cheek, and onwards to his ear. He even dips into the canal for a quick swirl before he pulls back and finally lets Stiles go.

"Oh, God damn, fuck you," Stiles chokes out around his laughter. He stuffs a finger into his ear, trying to rid himself of the lingering itch-tickle-wet sensation. "That was absolutely disgusting."

"Just wanted to make sure I was clear on your definition of licking," Derek says mildly. _Fucker._ "Didn't I do it right?"

God. Derek is so fucking beautiful like this, eyes bright with amusement and lips pulling down at the corners, like he's actively working at hiding his grin. Stiles doesn't bother answering him, just lowers his head and kisses him again, slowly, taking his time to really get to know the ways Derek responds to him. He pretty much lets Stiles lead whenever he presses in deep, strokes his tongue against Derek's, but as soon as Stiles pulls back, turns things gentle, or indulges in playful nips, Derek gets aggressive, pushing forward for more, like he wants to devour Stiles but is barely managing to hold himself back.

It's hot as fuck.

"God," Stiles says after they've made out so much his whole face feels tender and swollen. "I really want to blow you now. Can I? I've been thinking about it non-stop since you left my house."

Derek goes still. "Yeah," he rasps. "If you want to."

"I really, really want to." Stiles slips off of Derek's lap, not interested in wasting time on further discussion, and kneels between Derek's legs. Dude could really stand to get a rug to soften the floor, but Stiles can ignore the sharp pressure on his knees for as long as this takes. He reaches for Derek's belt, concentrating on the motion of his hands so he doesn't get too caught up in what he's about to do.

"Could your pants be any tighter?" he mutters as he eases the zipper down over the thick length of Derek's cock. Yep, that's Derek's cock, hard and hot against the back of Stiles' fingers. "Never mind blue balls, I don't understand how gangrene hasn't set in."

Derek snorts and lifts his hips, shoving his jeans down over his ass. And Stiles does mean _shove_. "People are less likely to pay attention to my face if they've got somewhere else to focus."

"I don't know whether to call bullshit on that, or just be really sad if that's your actual motivation," Stiles says as he rolls the waistband of Derek's boxer-briefs downwards, until the dark red head of his cock peeks out. "Never mind. I'm just going to focus on what's in front of me right now, 'k?"

"Yeah." Derek's voice is breathy, tight, and he sounds kind of dumb, like a stereotypical jock in a teen movie. It makes Stiles smile as he dips his head, but the smell of Derek, musky and strong, chases it away, making his own dick strain against his zipper.

"I'm going to demonstrate licking now," Stiles says. He flicks his tongue out, just touching it to the wet slit before he draws back, rolling the taste of Derek's pre-come around in his mouth.

"I thought you said licking involves movement," Derek says, hips shifting impatiently. "A stroking motion."

"See? And I was totally right about that," Stiles says, snickering at Derek's annoyed huff. His laughter dies away quickly, though, as Derek's cock twitches right in front of his face, begging to not go ignored. "Oh, man, you smell good. Yeah, I'm just gonna...."

Erica went deep on the first go. Stiles doesn't think he can handle that, not for the first time, and besides, this is partially for his own enjoyment. He closes his mouth just around the head, automatically sucking a little, like he would with a popsicle. Derek makes the most awesome noise ever, this sort of shuddering whimper thing, and oh, God, this is why Stiles has an oral fixation. It's like his mouth was made for dick. He lets himself get lost in what he's experiencing for a moment, tongue pressing up on the underside of the head while he swallows and swallows like he can suck Derek all the way down.

"Oh, fuck, Stiles," Derek groans. He curls forward, grabbing hold of Stiles' head with both hands. He doesn't push or anything, but Stiles can feel the tension in his grip. "Ease up a little, okay?"

Stiles comes off with a pop, then swipes at the mess he's already made of his mouth. "Not good?"

"You're amazing," Derek says, stroking his thumb over the corner of Stiles' mouth. "It just got way too intense for me."

"Sorry," Stiles says, but he grins anyway, far too pleased at being able to make Derek experience that. "What do you like? I, uh, forgot to mention that I haven't actually done this before."

"Don't suck so hard, not at first." Derek rubs the pad of his index finger over Stiles' bottom lip, like maybe he has a bit of a fixation, too. "You can play around as much as you want, but if you want me to come, you need to set a good rhythm. Use your hand if you need to."

"Do you want to come?" Stiles asks, flicking his tongue out, running it up the length of Derek's cock.

"God, yes," Derek breathes. "But you don't have to do it like this. Sometimes it takes me a while."

"Okay, yeah, that sounds like a challenge." Stiles dips his head, taking Derek in a little further this time around before he pulls off again. "And you know I can never resist a challenge."

"I know you can never resist talking," Derek growls. "You do realize that's incompatible with giving a blowjob, right?"

"Pfft. You have such a limiting outlook, dude." He opens wide, stretching his jaw like he's trying to unhinge it, and tries again, going for broke this time. It actually feels like he gets quite a ways down—until he brings his hand up and measures how far he still has to go. He pulls off, laughing softly. "Okay, so don't count on being deep throated anytime soon."

"Not really counting on anything _soon_ , no," Derek says. "You sure you're okay down there? Don't need a notebook or anything? A map, maybe?"

Stiles snorts. "Hey, you were the one who said to think about what I want, and I want some up close and personal time with a dick not my own. You would not believe how little that's happened this past week."

He starts to go down again, but Derek catches him with a finger under his chin, tipping his head back, forcing him to look up.

"Hey," Derek says. "I meant it. Even if you keep me on edge all night."

"I know." Stiles turns his head, catching hold of Derek's thumb and sucking it all the way into his mouth before he lets it go with a slurp. "I like that I'm getting to you, though." He remembers the text exchange with Derek this morning and flushes. "I'm not making fun of you, I swear. I just want to make you feel good."

"It's fine, and you are."

Stiles' stomach does this weird flutter, just like when Lydia and Danny had stroked the skin of his belly, only this is on the _inside_. "Um." He tugs at the tight denim still stretched over Derek's thighs. "Would you mind taking these off? I feel like I'm being denied my all-access pass."

Derek stands up. Stiles moves back just in time to avoid being dick-slapped, Derek smirking down at him before he starts stripping.

"Yeah, you're hilarious." Stiles stands up, too, rubbing the budding pressure sores out of his knees. "You could put an eye out with that thing."

"More dangerous than my claws and fangs combined, actually," Derek says mildly. "You should see it when I shift."

Stiles gapes at him. "What? Why? Do you...grow things?"

Derek rolls his eyes. "Yes, a pineapple sprouts from my dick, Stiles. I don't have to shop for produce as nearly as often as a human does."

"Oh, don't pull that shit." Stiles shoves him in the center of the chest, just a little. Not that it would make any difference if he put his full strength behind it. "I can't even with you, sometimes."

Derek's eyes redden, his brow wrinkles, the sides of his face sprout ridges of fur. "There. Happy?"

Stiles looks down. Derek's dick looks...exactly the same. "Huh."

Derek snorts. When Stiles looks up again, he's smooth-faced and smirking. "Anything else I can do for you while I'm up?"

"Pretty sure this is when I take over," Stiles says. He nudges Derek back towards the couch. Before Derek sits, he grabs one of the throw pillows and drops it on the floor. "Oh, hey. Thanks."

"Don't want your knees to interfere with your focus," Derek says. He slouches down and spreads his legs, a lot wider than he was able to before, and whatever Stiles was going to say to that is gone, bye-bye, so long.

"Yeah, I'm good." Stiles drops down, vaguely aware of how much more comfortable his knees are now, and pushes Derek's thighs even farther apart. "Damn. You're beautiful _everywhere._ "

"My balls are beautiful," Derek says flatly, like he can't believe the words coming out of Stiles' mouth. It's not a new tone for him.

"Yep." It's kind of awkward, since the couch doesn't give him a lot of space to move his head around, but he at least manages a little tongue action on first one side of Derek's scrotum, then the other, before licking a stripe right up the middle. It's a little weird, since Derek is fairly hairy down there, but Stiles likes the way Derek starts breathing noisily again, air whistling through his nose like he's trying to keep himself in check.

"I guess teabagging is something that's easier on a bed," Stiles says. He plants a kiss as low as he can, making a silent promise to Derek's balls to pay them more attention later, then moves back up to the main course.

"Positive reinforcement is encouraged, by the way," Stiles says, and then he takes Derek's dick in his hand and angles it into his mouth. Derek groans loudly, either really getting on board the positive reinforcement train or just that overcome. The time for messing around has passed, though, so Stiles doesn't ask. He starts bobbing up and down, feeling out his own limits, seeing how much he can take and how fast he can go. 

He likes doing it. He likes the taste of Derek, the weight of him in his mouth, and especially the way Derek keeps moaning and panting—but he can see why it's not the easiest thing ever to do for hours on end. There's slobber everywhere, no matter how often he tries to swallow or wipe it away. He keeps running out of air, even when he remembers to breathe through his nose, and his jaw feels tight, strained. If this takes too long, the muscles might cramp up before Derek comes, and that would be all kinds of wrong.

"That's really good," Derek says after Stiles has been at for a while. He wraps his hand around the one Stiles has on his dick, urging him to grip a little tighter. "Yeah, just like that."

When Derek had told him _sometimes it takes me a while_ , Stiles thought he meant _I'm not going to rocket off like an inexperienced teen three seconds after you put your mouth on me_. But it's gone on long enough now that Stiles is starting to wonder if it's all on his inexperienced technique, or if maybe he just doesn't turn Derek on enough to get him off. Or maybe there's something wrong with Derek. He certainly doesn't need Viagra, that's for sure, but maybe he's just not as sensitive as most people are.

Stiles doesn't want to give up. He's putting some serious consideration into it, though, when Derek starts to talk again.

"God. You don't have to keep going. I know it's too much to ask your first time." Derek strokes the back of his fingers down Stiles' cheek. "But fuck, Stiles, your mouth." He sucks in a ragged breath, eyes closing for a moment when Stiles picks up his pace, trying to clearly convey the message that he's _not stopping yet_.

"Your friends are so stupid. Your whole school." Derek's hips shift, just a little, but it's enough for Stiles to know he really is into what Stiles is doing. "Do you have any idea how badly I've wanted to...."

Stiles wants to bite him for trailing off in the middle of that sentence, or at least pull off and yell at him until Derek confesses exactly what he's so badly wanted to do, but something's changed. Derek's eyes are closed again, his thighs have tensed, and Stiles doesn't want to risk breaking the momentum.

"Please," Derek whispers. "So close, I swear, _please_."

Stiles squeezes Derek's leg with his free hand. Then he pulls up until he's got just the head of Derek's cock in his mouth, presses his tongue hard against the underside, and starts sucking and swallowing, just like he'd done at the very beginning. Derek makes a jagged cry, his gasp for breath sawing the sound in half, and then he curls forward, both hands clamping down around Stiles' skull. He thinks for a second that he's made a mistake, that Derek's going to wrench him away—but then a wet splash hits the back of his throat, hot, salty, and bitter. More keeps coming, filling his mouth, flooding it until it's leaking out between his lips, dribbling down Derek's cock and Stiles' hand.

"Oh, fuck, oh, fuck," Derek whimpers out. "Oh, my God, Stiles."

The pulses of jizz finally stop coming, and Stiles eases up on the sucking, though he does go down again a couple times, feeling like he just needs to give Derek that little bit of extra cool-down. Then he pulls off at last, sitting back on his heels while he works his jaw around, trying to loosen it up, hoping for that sweet pop-crack of relief. He's breathing almost as hard as Derek is, winded like he's coming down from a race, and all of a sudden he realizes exactly how hard he is.

"Okay, this might be rude, but." Stiles pops the button on his jeans while Derek watches with heavy-lidded, not-quite-focused eyes, then slides his zipper down. "Sorry. Bad case of strangulation going on, if you know what I mean. Which you probably do, considering those jeans."

Derek smiles sweetly. He looks incredible like this, and it's not just the fact that he's naked and spread out in front of Stiles. His face is far more open than Stiles has ever seen it, blissed-out and almost...adoring, maybe? Apparently Stiles' natural blowjob skills are nothing to scoff at, after all.

"So I did okay?"

"Did you do okay? God, Stiles. Get up here." Derek digs his heels into Stiles' ass, urging him up until Derek can grab onto his shoulders and haul him in. Stiles winds up on his lap, thighs spread wide, denim cutting into his thighs, as Derek pulls him in tight like a child hugging a teddy bear. Before Stiles can even wrap his mind around that, Derek brings a hand up to the base of Stiles' skull, tipping his head down for a slow, deep kiss. It's pretty obvious that Derek doesn't mind tasting his own spunk, because he takes his time, biting and sucking and freakin' _lapping_ at Stiles' mouth.

"Woah," Stiles says when Derek finally breaks away for a ragged breath.

"Yeah, woah." Derek's smiling again. He catches hold of Stiles' hand and draws it up to his throat, wrestling with him for a moment until Stiles figures out Derek wants him to rest his fingers against his carotid pulse. "Feel that?"

"Your pulse?" It's pretty fast, Derek obviously still worked up from the blowjob, but Stiles can feel each bump-bump-bump against his fingers. "Yeah."

"Nobody's ever made me feel that good before," Derek says slowly. "Nobody."

Stiles stares down at his fingers. Derek's pulse is steady as it was while those words came out of his mouth. "No freakin' way."

Derek snorts. "Way."

Stiles laughs giddily. "Okay, it's official, Stiles Stilinski is a sex genius." Derek opens his mouth, undoubtedly to say something rude, but Stiles swoops in, kissing him until there's only one thing on his own mind. "Oh, man. I really need to get off, like right now."

"I can help with that," Derek says. He sets his hands on Stiles' thighs, thumbs sweeping along the thick inner seam. "What do you want from me? My mouth? My hand? Or you can fuck me, if you want."

"Oh, Jesus." Stiles drops his forehead against Derek's, not even wincing when he miscalculates a little and they thunk together like ripe coconuts. God, he wants Derek's mouth on him, so hot, so wet, paying him back for what Stiles just did. Or, oh, fuck, he can hardly even comprehend how amazing it would be to slick Derek up, to get him to hold onto his own thighs and pull them back so Stiles can sink his cock inside. But, man, he's so turned on right now he doesn't think he could even appreciate the bounty offered up to him. A hand job would be good, a hand job is always good, who the hell turns down a hand job?

Stiles opens his mouth—and nothing comes out except his too fast breathing. All he has to do to get off is to make a choice, but how the fuck does he pick? He wants _everything_. He wants to Derek to do everything to him, wants to do everything to Derek, but his brain keeps going in circles, not letting him decide where to freakin' start.

"Hey," Derek says sharply. "Hey, Stiles, look at me."

Stiles lifts his head. Derek's looking up at him, eyebrows perched worriedly, and that's when Stiles realizes how fast he's breathing. He sucks in a full breath, so quickly the air kicks at his ribs, and then makes himself let it out slowly, then do it again.

"You okay?" Derek asks.

"Yeah." Stiles blushes. Wow. From sex savant to anxious mess in a matter of seconds, how impressive is that? "Uh, sorry about that. Got caught up in my head."

"Yeah, I figured." Derek slides his hands up under the hem of Stiles' T-shirt, resting his hot palms on Stiles' sides. "Wanna tell me why?"

"The stupidest reason ever, oh, my God." Stiles laughs softly. "I can't decide what I want you to do. Too many options."

Derek's lips twitch upward, but it isn't an unkind smirk. "Do you still want to come?"

Stiles nods. "I really, really do."

"Do you want me to decide how?"

"Um." It'd be the quickest, easiest way to shortcircuit the spirals in his brain, but at the same time it sort of goes against his whole resolve to be more proactive about getting what he wants out of a sexual encounter.

On the other hand, what he really wants right now is to come, so hey, there's that.

"Right. Here's what I want to do." Derek's fingers tighten on his waist for a moment before he gentles them again. "I want to pull your cock out of your pants right now and jerk you off until you come all over me. After that, we're going to figure out what we want for dinner, and you're going to call it in while I put my clothes back on, so my shirt soaks up your come and I'm stinking like you when I go to answer the door for the delivery guy. We'll eat, watch another movie, and then go to my bed, where we'll get naked and do whatever we feel like. If you don't get to try everything you want, we'll do it again until you're satisfied. No matter how long it takes us."

"Holy shit," Stiles breathes, because who in the hell ever would have guessed Derek could talk like that? "Have you taken classes in dirty talk? Do you _give_ lessons? Because I'm pretty sure that's the sexiest thing I've ever heard in my life."

Derek snorts. "The only secret to dirty talk is to tell the other person what you're thinking."

"Oh." Stiles licks his lips. "So, like, if I said yes, I really want that, I want to feel your hand wrapped around my cock right now—"

Derek leans up to nip at his mouth. "I'd say that is a very good start."

"Okay, so." He looks down at himself, frowns, then scrambles off of Derek's lap and hurriedly strips off his jeans. He leaves his underwear, since those don't really get in the way, and plops back down in Derek's lap. "Okay, do it. Take me out, get your hand on me before I _die_."

"I'm glad you left your underwear on," Derek says as he works his hand into the flap. He grips Stiles' cock lightly, working his thumb over the head. Stiles closes his eyes, breathing harshly through his nose. "You know why?"

Stiles shakes his head.

Derek starts to work his cock out through the gap. "Because of this. Fuck, Stiles. Look. Look at how hot that is, with your cock sticking out like that. I'm almost getting hard again myself, seeing you like this."

Stiles looks down. It's positively _obscene_ the way his dick is poking out of his shorts, deep purple red, so wet with pre-come Derek's not going to need any lotion or anything to smooth the way. 

"Yeah?" he says, licking his lips. "So why don't you touch it, then? I really want you to touch me, jerk me fast and hard until I'm spraying all over you. It's not going to take much."

Derek raises his hand to his face, eyelids fluttering as he takes a deep sniff of his palm. "You smell so fucking good," he says, and then he sticks his tongue out, licking all over his hand. "Taste good, too."

"That's—"

Derek wraps his wet hand around Stiles' cock.

"Fuck me _yesss_!"

Derek chuckles, but Stiles doesn't give a fuck because Derek's taking him at his word, starting right out of the gate with a tight grip and a fast rhythm.

"Yeah, yeah, just like that," Stiles pants. He's curled into Derek now, head propped on top of Derek's, hands clutching Derek's shoulders for support. "Fuck me, that's so good, I mean it, I'm gonna come in like two seconds."

"If you say stuff like that, I'm gonna need to invest in a stopwatch." Derek's hand is flying now, faster than Stiles has ever been able to manage, and that's it, he's done, balls drawing up, ass clenching, his whole body shuddering as he comes.

"Oh, fuck," he says, staring down at the load of his semen splashed all over Derek's chest and belly. "Oh, my God, I think I almost had an aneurysm. That was like the lightning round or something."

"You said you wanted it fast." Derek draws a finger through the mess on his chest, then wipes it off. On his tongue.

"Yeah, I did. Wow." Stiles slides to the side, sinking into the embrace of the couch while he tucks his penis away. "But seriously, though. Do not expect coherence from me for a while."

"You do realize you just set yourself up perfectly, right?"

Stiles drags his hand through the air in a lazy wave. "Insult me all you want, too busy experiencing afterglow."

Derek snorts, then presses a sweet kiss to the top of Stiles' head. They pretty much set about following Derek's plan after that, although Derek doesn't put his jeans back on and Stiles forces him to call in the order to the Chinese place, citing a prolonged case of afterglow.

"Can I ask you something?" he asks later, after he's sucked down so much lo mein he's fairly sure he'll never be able to have sex again. His food belly is a permanent fixture now, a little alien appendage that's going to spoil every attempt he makes at moving off the couch.

"Since when do you ask to ask me something?" Derek doesn't look much better off than Stiles, sprawled out on the opposite end of the couch, a few grains of fried rice scattered across his shirt. Mmm, sexy.

(It kind of is.)

"Wow. Remember that the next time you start bitching about my manners." Stiles takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. "Do you think I'm a sub? What with the whole responding to your orders and not being able to make up my own damn mind and all."

"I seem to remember you giving me plenty of orders," Derek says. "Like _take my cock out now_ , for instance."

Stiles shoves his foot under Derek's bare knee, wriggling his toes until Derek grabs them and squeezes. "Shut up, okay. I'm being serious."

Derek sighs and lets his foot go. "You really wanna know what I think?"

"Duh. That's why I asked."

"I think you get nervous because you want to be perfect," Derek says softly. "Which is understandable, since you're still new to everything. So it's a lot easier for you if someone's telling you what to do."

"Oh," he says, because yes, that totally jives what Stiles had been thinking before. "Okay, so does that mean I'm not a sub?"

"I think that's something you'll figure out for yourself, after you've had more chances to try out what you like." Derek smiles, then swings his legs around on the couch so his feet are in Stiles' lap, perilously close to the alien food baby gestating in his abdomen. "Not everything's as cut and dried as you're trying to make it, Stiles. For example, I used to hate it when anybody touched my feet."

"You are such an alpha even when you think you're being subtle," Stiles says, but he obliges Derek anyway, cradling Derek's right foot in his hands and digging his thumbs into the tight muscles of his arch. Derek groans, deeper and more guttural than the noises he made while Stiles was blowing him. He's gorgeous like this, sprawled out in his grody shirt and boxers, face blissed out, his whole body open, trusting, so far from the lost, angry werewolf he'd been when Stiles first met him.

Stiles works his knuckles into the tender spots on Derek's heel, and _wants_.

He's not sure what he wants, or how much, how often. But he's starting to get the feeling that those aren't questions he has to find the answers to tonight.

"Hey, Derek?" he asks quietly.

"Mmm?"

Stiles swallows. He's not exactly nervous, but he feels a sense of anticipation, a thrumming under his skin that's starting to chase away his post-meal lethargy. "When you said before, that we could try whatever I want, until I'm satisfied, did you have a time limit in mind on that?"

Derek smiles with his eyes closed. "Nope."

"Just checking," Stiles says, his own smile creeping into his voice, and moves on to Derek's other foot.

END

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles experiences a couple of occurrences of anxiety (related to expectations he's placed on himself) though both stop short of a full-blown panic attack.
> 
> References to the abuse Isaac received in the past, though not in detail.
> 
> Derek makes a couple statements that obliquely refer to his experiences with Kate, though they're subtle and Stiles doesn't understand the context.
> 
> Stiles thinks about several kinks throughout, trying to figure out whether or not he likes them. To the best of my abilities I've tried to avoid any kink shaming while he does this. Derek does state that he doesn't enjoy humiliation. (It's implied that this is a trigger for him.)


End file.
